


you wingless thing

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Happy Ending, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Heavy Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rape, Revenge, Torture, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, and we hurt geralt too, in this house we hurt jaskier, it's homoerotic wing grooming yall cause my wing kink is RAGING, pain all around, rather tag than trigger though so, so many fucking tags this fic is terrible im so sorry lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, heisn’ta savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”Geralt gets a contract in a town called Eristan, but it turns out the only monster there is human.(scheduled mondays, wednesdays, and fridays)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 602





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic came to me in a dream and is now 26k so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> and on that note, any weirdness can be blamed on my subconscious, which is very wild and is lucky i can actually make its nonsense coherent enough for a fic.

It’s in the heat of summer that Geralt gets a contract in Eristan, a town buried deep in a forest named after it. 

He’s heard rumors about this town - nearly everyone who travels within a two hundred mile radius of it has. The town isn’t small - it has some nobility of its own, and quite a few open fields within it - but the entirety of it is surrounded by a massive forest. Trade there is nearly impossible due to that, and some say that the forest itself is cursed, because it happens far too often that some people don’t make it out. Others say that the town is cursed; the streak of good and bad luck there is too extreme, too spontaneous to be normal. 

Geralt doesn’t believe these rumors. Not in the way the townsfolk do, at least. Eristan is not cursed, and neither is Eristan Forest. There is simply a creature there, or a mage, which they have gotten on the bad side of. He doesn’t take it as superstition - for one, because he doesn’t feel any magic in the forest as he travels through it, and for two, he makes it out just fine, emerging on the outskirts of one of the fields on the edge of the town. 

He stops at the treeline and scans the town. Short houses are scattered in clumps around larger mansions, supposedly belonging to the nobility, and vast open fields separate the clusters from each other. It’s a bit different than most established towns Geralt has come across, especially the fact that one of the noble mansions is atop a hill, and behind it, a stone spire, twisting up into the sky. 

Geralt feels the hum of his medallion against his chest, and almost considers turning back right then and there. There’s no monster in this town; he knows that tower is the source of their troubles, and judging by its proximity to the noble mansion in front of it, he’s guessing the nobles are playing with forces they don’t understand. He wouldn’t be surprised if they managed to piss off some powerful creature, and that’s why the city is so spontaneous and extreme with its luck. 

Geralt sighs and begins making camp right there. He really doesn’t feel like traipsing across an entire town with the weight of everyone’s judgmental stares on his back, and then have to deal with entitled nobility. Especially when that nobility probably has even more of a power complex for being able to keep up the illusion of capturing a powerful creature like the one in that tower. 

He sleeps under the stars instead, with the fading warmth of the fire next to him and the even more faded warmth of his medallion humming against his chest - and then ends up traipsing across the entire town in the morning, waking up at the early light of dawn and packing up the little things he has.

The first cluster of houses he comes across is just as judgmental as he expected it to be. Geralt doesn’t miss the whispers following him, of _Butcher_ and _monster_ and _freak;_ the names have been following him like a shadow his entire life. The only difference is there’s one more added on. He sighs and keeps riding on Roach, through the second and third cluster of houses. 

It’s nearing sunset when he finally makes it to the fourth, just beneath the hill the noble’s mansion is built on, with dust in his clothes and Roach panting beneath him. He dismounts Roach and stables her in an inn that looks only slightly more promising than most of the others, because the stable boys, at least, only look at him with the customary fear of a Witcher, and not the heightened fear of the _Butcher._

He swings the inn door open, mentally bracing himself against the onslaught of noise, and walks inside. The inn slowly goes quiet as he does, the sharp scent of fear stinging Geralt’s nose and the quiet hush of whispers reaching his ears as he makes his way to the innkeeper and negotiates for a room.

It takes at least ten minutes, and it’s the smallest room the inn has at too high a price, but Geralt manages to get it and he pays for the room before walking directly upstairs to it. He’s not in the mood for drinking, not when he’s going to be dealing with nobility in the morning, and he doesn’t want to push his luck either. It’s unlikely he’d get a drink in this establishment anyway, when it was as hard as it was to get a room.

He sighs as he sets his swords down and strips off his armor, looking around the room. There isn’t a bath drawn, and Geralt isn’t sure that the inn would provide him one. He figures that it’s just dust anyway, and he’d rather go to bed slightly dusty than get thrown out of the inn or deal with harsh words for wanting a luxury such as bathing. At least he’s not covered in monster guts, though in that memorable occasion, he did get a bath in the end, if only because the innkeeper got too many complaints about the smell. 

He falls into the bed in the corner once he finishes and drifts into sleep quickly, ignoring the increased pulsing hum of his medallion against his chest. 

-0-0-0-

Geralt’s eyes snap open just as footsteps stop outside his door and three loud, resounding knocks sound on the wood. He sits up in bed, a quick scent of the air bringing in lavender, exotic spices, and some more expensive smells. There’s no sweat, dirt, or ale on any of Geralt’s sudden company outside his door. 

Nobility then. Geralt sighs, mentally lamenting the fact that he hasn’t even had breakfast yet, and stands up, walking to the door and swinging it open with an unimpressed expression on his face. 

There’s three of them - one young boy whose fear-scent makes Geralt’s nose burn, and two guards who do better to hide it, but whose heartbeats still ratchet up a notch at the sight of him. 

The boy falters at the expression on Geralt’s face, brown eyes wide and terrified, so he softens his face slightly. He isn’t here to terrorize the pager boy this entitled noble lord hired, and it’s not the boy’s fault that they came to get Geralt at the crack of dawn. 

So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he _isn’t_ a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.

The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”

Geralt sighs and flicks a glance at the guards. It most definitely is not a request, not from nobility, so he has no choice but to accept. Unless he’d rather be drawn into the political mess of a lord’s anger, which, he’d really rather not. 

“Ten minutes,” he rumbles, and doesn’t wait for a response before he turns around and goes to get his armor. 

The guards don’t look too happy with him when he walks back up to them fully dressed, but he can’t be made to give a fuck. If they want to come get him at the crack of dawn, then they can wait for him to get his shit together. 

The walk to the noble’s mansion is quietly entertaining for Geralt, who watches the guards hide their panting and racing heartbeats, while he’s relatively unaffected by the uphill walk. The pager boy walks just ahead of Geralt and the guards, heart still racing and fear still stinging Geralt’s nose. 

Of course, he shouldn’t have expected the people at the keep to be any less judgmental than his very unhappy escorts. As he’s led through the gate, he gets barely a nod of acknowledgment from the guards there, and he can feel the curious gazes and hushed whispers of the various landscapers occupying the front courtyard.

The main entryway of the noble’s manor is grand, including a spiral staircase in the center and clean white marble floors, the whole space made airy and open by the soaring ceilings carved with intricate patterns. Servants dressed in plain clothes flit about through doorways, some sparing curious glances at Geralt and some paying him no mind. The pager boy, straightening slightly as he’s in his element now, leads Geralt through one of the doorways to what appears to be a lavish front room, covered in soft, expensive rugs and couches and smelling almost overwhelmingly like flowers. 

The floral perfumes almost hide the still-present scent of fear from the pager boy, and the natural scents of the guards. The perfumes are so strong that it puts Geralt on edge, having his sense of smell inhibited like this, but he tries to stay as relaxed and calm as possible in the guards’ presence, and takes a seat on one of the couches at the boy’s request before he hurries away out of sight. 

The guards take up position behind him, against the wall - and that sets off more alarm bells in Geralt’s head. His fingers twitch from where they’re hanging between his thighs, and he focuses on the weight of his swords leaning against his calf, and the fainter, natural scents of the guards beneath the perfumes. 

He doesn’t have to wait long before there’s the sound of footsteps and the floral scent increases, drifting in from the doorway as a man he can only assume is Lord Erynd enters and sits down on the couch across from Geralt. 

Erynd is dressed in an expensive suit, with an overly generous application of that damned floral perfume floating around him in an almost suffocating cloud, and wearing the kind of smug arrogance Geralt only sees on nobles who think they are better and more entitled than everyone and everything around them. He sighs internally, really not up to dealing with nobility, but not exactly having a choice. 

“Witcher,” Erynd starts, a note of harshness to his voice that solidifies Geralt’s assumption of this lord’s attitude, “I assume you came because of the contract one of my townspeople posted in a nearby village?”

Geralt nods. “You’ve been having bad luck lately - and really good luck.”

The lord inclines his head in acquiescence, but there’s a strange air of calm about him, as if he doesn’t care. It sets off distant alarm bells in Geralt’s head, but he stays still and quiet and keeps listening. “Yes, but the cause is of no concern to you. Your services are not required in this situation, because I have it more than handled,” Erynd says. 

Geralt frowns, suspicion immediately seeping into his tone and his eyes narrowing as he holds Erynd’s eerily calm gaze. “Handled how?”

Erynd gives a small, pleased smile, which only sets Geralt more on edge. At this point, he’s on a hair-trigger, fingers twitching against his thigh and the weight of his swords leaning against his ankle a comfort. 

“I would be delighted to show you, Witcher,” he says, all smug arrogance, “I’m sure you will appreciate my mastery of these beasts.” His tone drops lower, almost secretive - and _there’s_ the catch. “I only ask that you keep this between us.”

Geralt pauses, frown still in place, considering his options. It’s very likely that this is a trap - if Erynd has some creature imprisoned in that tower like Geralt thinks he does, he knows he is dangerously close to being a monster himself, and may find himself the next monster in Erynd’s supposed collection. 

Or, it’s something entirely different. But either way, it won’t work out well for him to refuse nobility. 

Geralt smooths out his frown and schools his expression into something neutral. He can’t find out what Erynd is hiding if he shows displeasure towards it - that can be saved for later, when he dismantles whatever the lord has happening with the monsters, or when he is slashing his way out of being added to the lord’s collection. 

“As you wish,” he replies instead, voice steady and neutral, and tries to shove down his uneasiness at the resulting sickly sweet smile on the lord’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meeting jaskier next chapter! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking all the parts of fae i like, other parts from other things i like, and mashing them together into a fae soup ig ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Erynd leads him through the manor house towards the back, into a small alcove with a plain, locked steel door, and down a dimly lit stone corridor - which are all thankfully devoid of any floral perfumes, save for the ones Erynd is wearing. Geralt hears the faint growling and hissing of monsters reverberating off of the stone walls beyond the darkness in front of them, followed by sharp reprimands and something slamming against what sounds like cage bars. 

Erynd is too proud of his creation, as they emerge into a hallway lined with prison cells - except, these prison cells contain all varieties of monsters in them, and most hum with magic to keep the monsters either inside, in tangible forms, or both. 

Erynd rambles about it as they walk, too-cheerful voice grating on Geralt’s ears along with the scratching, slamming, and growling all around them. Geralt tries to force down his uneasiness at the lord’s pride in his dungeon, and the soul-deep weariness at the world of seeing how humans treat monsters like these. 

Monsters like him. 

“I’m very proud of this, you know,” Erynd says over the sound of the enraged monsters around them. “Not many can contain as many monsters as I have. I even caught a siren a few days ago. She’s very beautiful.” He shoots a dark grin at Geralt. “Too bad she won’t be singing anytime soon,” he says, far too cheerfully. 

And then they come upon the siren’s cage, just as Geralt is left with an all too active imagination of what Erynd could do to a siren to prevent her singing. The cage is carved into the stone around them and filled with water, with a glass wall enchanted by magic Geralt can feel thrumming in the air around them enclosing her. She doesn’t have a gag, but she comes up to them and Geralt finds that she doesn’t need one; the lord has ripped out her tongue, rendering her entirely incapable of speech or song. 

Geralt sighs as he watches the siren, all too aware of just how close he is to being too different, and ending up in one of these cages himself. 

He still isn’t completely sure that that isn’t Erynd’s plan. 

Erynd leads him further through the winding stone hallways, oblivious to Geralt’s unease. There’s a wyvern, chained by the ankle in a large stone room; a drowner in a half-swamp, half-land enclosure; a noonwraith and nightwraith with magic keeping them in tangible forms. Geralt’s medallion hums with the magic thrumming all around them and keeping the place running, but there is still a cloud of heavier magic draped across the room, the same way it is across the town. Whatever Geralt is feeling, it’s not here. It’s somewhere else, some _ thing  _ else, and he thinks Erynd is leading him to it. 

They stop in front of a pair of large, iron double doors and Geralt can feel the magic humming behind them, much more powerful than anything encountered in the first maze of winding stone hallways and prison cells, and knows Erynd has led him to the source. He wonders what is behind those doors, partly because of the magic and partly because no door so far has been made out of iron; whatever is beyond them has a weakness to iron. Geralt only knows of a few creatures who have a weakness to iron, one of which is thought to be extinct, and others incredibly rare. 

Erynd lays his hand on the door and the magic around them pulses, causing the doors to swing slowly open and reveal a small round room with a ladder attached to the stone wall, which rises high above them. Geralt follows Erynd inside and up the ladder, through an iron barred trapdoor the lord unlocks with a key - again with the iron - and into a large, naturally made stone room. 

Geralt looks around, at the uneven stone and soaring ceilings, at the rough archway leading to another room and what looks like a lake, at the windows cut in the stone walls with iron bars over them, and a fresh, cold breeze blowing through - and realizes where they are. 

The tower atop the hill; the one just behind the noble’s manor house. And the whole place practically pounds with magic - Geralt can feel it in his bones, in his medallion, all throughout his body, sinking into every pore of the place and weaving itself throughout anything that exists within it. This is the source of the blanket of magic laying heavy across the town, and Geralt has a sneaking suspicion of what the creature is that Erynd has imprisoned here - but, for Erynd’s sake, he hopes it really isn’t what he thinks it is. 

Erynd is grinning, now, with even more smug pride than before, as Geralt walks through the stone archway into the next room, which is just as large, if not larger, than the main room. There’s a sparkling blue lake cut in the middle of it, with a small stone outcropping on the other side extending out into the middle of the shimmering water. Geralt thinks he can see something moving underneath it, like shadows dancing just beneath the surface. 

Erynd follows him, standing in the doorway and talking while Geralt walks around the lake on darkened, wet stone to the outcropping. “This is where my prize pet stays,” he says, unreasonably proud and ever so smug. “My little lark, though... I’m not quite sure what creature he is. Perhaps you could tell me, Witcher?”

Geralt grunts noncommittally and ignores him, crouching down on the stone and looking into the lake. Something definitely moves beneath it, something long and lithe and so, so silent. He still doesn’t quite know if it’s there or if he’s seeing things, so he stands up and turns his gaze on Lord Erynd. No point wasting his time on something that may or may not be there, especially when his patience is running short today. 

“Where is he?” he asks shortly, and receives a displeased frown in return, but Geralt really couldn’t care less what the lord thinks of his social skills. He’s here for one thing only, and that’s to identify this creature for Erynd. The lord can demand he have better social skills when he gives him a more socially demanding job to do. 

“I’m never entirely sure. He’s very flighty, and bratty. I’ve had him for ten years and I still cannot make him listen to me.” His tone grows hopeful, though still carries that noble edge to it that strongly suggests to agree with him, or else. “Perhaps you could teach my lark a lesson?” he says. 

Geralt’s gaze turns hard and unforgiving, golden eyes flashing dangerously as he barely manages to shove down the rush of anger at that suggestion. “How you handle your creatures is of no concern to me,” he says firmly, and as neutrally as he can manage. “I will not  _ teach him a lesson.” _

Erynd frowns, voice significantly less friendly as he realizes his noble authority won’t work on Geralt. “Fine. He might be up here, then.” 

The lord indicates a stone staircase carved into the center of the main room with his head and Geralt follows him up it, taking one last glance back at the shimmering lake before he goes. 

They emerge into bright, scorching daylight, having spent most of the morning in Erynd’s dungeon while the sun slowly rose to be high in the sky. Geralt looks around; the top of the tower is a mostly round, flat platform, with bright green grass and various vividly colored flowering plants growing from the dirt covering it. Behind him, the stone wall of the tower rises up several feet above his head around half of the platform, and the sides slope down to a low railing surrounding the other half of the platform. Geralt walks to stand against the edge of the railing, looking out across the town and blue skies, and feels the magic thrumming in front of him, forming a dome over the top of the tower. 

Erynd still looks displeased as Geralt turns around and watches his irritated gaze flick critically around the empty platform and nature growing on it. Geralt has a feeling the grass and flowers were not his idea, from the way he attempts to burn the flowering plants with the sheer force of his glare. 

“He should be here,” Erynd says, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. 

Geralt’s lips quirk up slightly. “Maybe you should have imprisoned him better,” he says dryly. “Trapped creatures never listen unless they are forced to.”

Erynd glares at Geralt for the blatant challenge to his authority, and Geralt returns his gaze, golden eyes steady and uncaring of whatever offense the lord took to his words. “I will do what I damn well please with my creatures,” he says sharply, and yeah, Geralt knows he’s definitely fallen out of favor with this noble lord. 

He shrugs. Can’t force them all to listen, especially a noble who believes they have control over so many creatures. He turns back to the railing, careful to keep himself away from the forcefield, and looks out over the town.

Geralt wonders whether it’s possible to free these creatures - he  _ wants _ to, definitely. They’re not harming anyone - sure, he may have to kill the drowner and the wraiths, but the siren, the wyvern, the striga, they can all be set free, along with all of the others who aren’t killing anyone. He wants to free whatever creature is imprisoned in this tower, too, because he knows that even a gilded cage is still a cage, no matter how beautiful. No monster should have to live their life in captivity like Erynd has forced them to - the noble lord is lucky none of them have broken out yet and exacted revenge on their human captor. 

A commotion behind him breaks Geralt abruptly out of his thoughts. The soft fluttering of wings and Erynd’s breath stuttering makes Geralt turn around, sharp golden gaze catching instantly on the white bird flitting through the air, gliding towards Geralt and sinking its claws into his shoulder braces, perching there as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Erynd lets out a surprised noise, and Geralt turns his gaze from his sudden company to the lord. 

“He doesn’t usually do that for strangers,” Erynd says by way of explanation. 

Geralt looks at the small white bird perched on his shoulder. He had a suspicion of what the creature was - something much more powerful and dangerous than this bird - but he didn’t think it would be a literal lark, as Erynd calls it. He reaches up and scratches a finger on its head, watching as the bird dips its head and gives a contented little trill. Geralt hums, still suspicious. The cloud of magic draped over the town, Erynd’s dungeon, and pounding in this tower and making his medallion hum hasn’t gone away, but it certainly doesn’t belong to this bird - so what does it belong to?

Erynd looks distrustful of Geralt as the bird practically purrs under his attention, that ever-present frown still on his face and his displeasure threading through his scent and turning it sour. “He doesn’t like anyone. Even I have marks from that bird’s beak,” the lord tells him.

The bird flies off of Geralt’s shoulder before he can reply, and the Witcher nearly turns his attention back to Lord Erynd before there’s a shift in the air and a wave of magic that hits him. His gaze turns quickly back to the spot the bird flew to, and finds instead a man around Geralt’s height, lithe, dressed in a sapphire doublet and trousers, and barefoot. There’s a thin collar around his neck that Geralt assumes is dimeritium by the way the magic floating around them is dormant and trapped, and a folded pair of feathered wings behind his back that glow white in the sunlight. 

The man turns a sharp, critical glare on Erynd before he pays any mind to Geralt. “Any creature dislikes their captor, Erynd,” he says, tone condescending, but voice light, lilting, and almost musical. Geralt watches as nearly translucent blue eyes turn to him, studying him, scanning down his body. 

“Never seen a Witcher before,” he says slowly, idle curiosity in his tone and curling the corner of his lips up slightly in interest. “Are you trying to kill me, Erynd?” he asks, flicking a glance at the lord. His lips spread into a smile then, mild surprise shocking through Geralt at the sharp edge to the expression. There’s no humor in it, and his voice drips with dark promise when he speaks next. “I can assure you, that won’t turn out well for either of you.”

Erynd glares at the man, silent, while Geralt’s golden eyes flick between the two, tracking every small movement. There’s a silent moment of tension, and, he notices, just as Erynd replies - the man falters just barely, the slightest tinge of fear from his scent stinging Geralt’s nose. It wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone but someone with enhanced senses, either about this sort of thing or in general, like Geralt, and he doesn’t want to know what Erynd does to this creature to make him even slightly scared of him, especially when he can feel the immense weight of the man’s trapped magic still laying heavy and powerful around them. 

“No, little lark, I am not trying to kill you,” Erynd replies finally, voice and smile tight. “This Witcher is simply here to tell me what you are.” 

The man’s eyes return to Geralt and the fear is gone as swiftly as it came, replaced by a bitter smile. 

“I’m sure all he’ll see is a trapped monster. Right,  _ Witcher _ ?”

Geralt tilts his head, taking in the challenge in the man’s eyes and returning with his own unyielding tone. The man is obviously defiant even to his captor, even as he fears him, and Geralt won’t be seen as being weak in front of him. Not because of his pride, but because he feels that being seen as something lesser than this man would not turn out well for him. “I see a trapped  _ creature.  _ Not monster. A fae, and a powerful one at that.”

The fae is silent, blue eyes reassessing Geralt as he holds his gaze. They’re both silent, Geralt steady and neutral and the fae curious and idly amused. Geralt feels like he’s a prey being sized up by a predator, and it makes him shift uncomfortably on his feet.

Erynd steps forward, interrupting the moment, the frown on his face deeper than it’s been the entire day, and suddenly the lord’s voice carries all of the noble power Geralt would’ve expected in it when he speaks next. 

“Down, little lark,” he says, hand resting almost possessively on the fae’s lower back. He gets blue eyes turned sharply on him in open defiance in return, the fae’s trapped magic weaving through the air and carrying a touch of leftover anger in reaction to its owner’s surging emotions. 

Geralt watches the interaction, noting the slight hint of fear underlying the fae’s scent even as he defies Erynd, and something in him wants to protect the fae, take him far away from here, like all of the other trapped creatures. He doesn’t deserve this life in captivity; none of them do. 

But, he can’t do that, and instead, as all nobles who don’t get what they want, Erynd doesn’t take kindly to the fae’s defiance. The harsh edge of anger sears Geralt’s senses as the lord’s eyes harden and the fae’s fear-scent increases. 

“I said  _ down. _ ” 

There’s a moment of tense, charged silence, where both the dormant magic and the air itself crackles with anger and fear and power. Geralt, and Erynd too, almost think that the fae isn’t going to listen, before his eyes flick briefly to Geralt and then down, as he slowly sinks to his knees. 

“Good,” Erynd says. His hand comes to rest in the fae’s hair and his eyes turn to Geralt, all but ignoring the man who was just forced to submit to him. It’s an appalling, degrading show of possessiveness and entitlement, but Geralt shoves down the flash of anger and tries not to focus on Erynd’s short, possessive tugs on the fae’s dark hair, or the resulting sharp inhales and surge of quiet anger in the fae’s scent. 

“I need you to tell me about his abilities, Witcher. How much money could I make selling his abilities?” Erynd asks, as if the fae isn’t sitting right there and as if his fear doesn’t flood his scent as soon as the words leave the lord’s mouth. 

Red dances at the edge of Geralt’s vision, and he stands perfectly still, holding Erynd’s infuriatingly calm eyes, and lets out a controlled breath. He tells himself that years spent training at Kaer Morhen are  _ not _ going to be wasted on an entitled noble lord who thinks he can control a creature as powerful as a fae, and who is treating said fae like a piece of fucking furniture, and can’t smell the overwhelming fucking  _ fear  _ on the creature-

Another controlled breath. In, out. Steady voice, steady breathing, and Geralt trusts himself enough to reply to the noble’s request without shoving his swords in some lethal place on his body. 

“Fae are far too dangerous to sell their abilities,” Geralt says, because if he can’t save the fae, at least he can try to influence whether he becomes a visiting attraction. 

Erynd frowns, and Geralt notices his hand has left the fae’s hair, causing the fae to relax just slightly and the harsh edge of anger in both his scent and magic recede a little. “What can he do that doesn’t require magic?” the lord asks. 

Geralt sighs, mentally cursing whatever higher powers there are that put him in the position of helping someone like Erynd, and forces down his annoyance and anger yet again. He has to think straight to try to influence Erynd, and can’t be ruled by emotions. 

No matter how much he wants to punch the noble in his smug face. 

Except, his eyes flick down to just beside Erynd’s ankle and the spot is empty. There’s no dark brown hair, no pale skin, lithe body and white feathered wings. Geralt pauses, eyes darting subtly around, until he catches a glimpse of long fingers on the stair railing and a flash of white feathers behind Erynd, quickly and silently descending. 

He brings his gaze back to the lord, trying to act like nothing happened, though he can feel the adrenaline beginning to rush through his body and his mind runs through what happens when Erynd realizes the fae is gone. “Fae are not creatures that should be tested. Even without magic, you could get seriously hurt. And there’s no guarantee you’d be able to keep him.”

Erynd frowns deeper at Geralt’s refusal to answer his questions. His hand twitches out - and Geralt really hoped that he would be able to stall longer, but it takes all of three seconds for the lord to realize his prized pet is gone before his face contorts in rage. 

And then Geralt is shoving past him, moving down the stairs as fast as he can, following the trail the fae left of the trapdoor swung wide open, the large iron doors at the bottom of that ladder left unlocked, and a second trail of guard’s corpses in puddles of blood in the winding maze of prison cells. 

And, a third trail to finish off the fae’s mischief, of cell doors swung wide open and the enraged roars and screeches of freed monsters prowling the dim stone hallways. 

Geralt sighs, this time cursing the fae himself for making it so difficult to help him, before he vanishes into the shadows of the hallways just as Erynd emerges behind him. It’s tricky, navigating a literal maze of monsters, but Geralt knows how to think like prey as much as he knows how to think like a predator, and melts into the darkness. 

He moves on silent feet through the corridors, relying only on his innate sense of direction to get him to the exit. It’s too dark to see much - even with Geralt’s enhanced sight - due to the fae extinguishing every torch he came across, and Geralt silently wishes he had his potions to help him. But, he doesn’t, so he uses his enhanced hearing to listen for every monster he comes near, uses his slightly-better sight to watch for any monster he may come across, and manages to make it to the exit without having to sink his blade into any monster, or get violently mauled by one either. 

The manor house, as Geralt walks up the stairs and emerges through the simple steel door, is just as frenzied as the dungeon below it, as the guards mobilize to capture Erynd’s prized pet - who just so happens to be a creature that is a master of games, even if his magic is still lying dormant around them, and who is much more likely to stab the guards than talk with them. Geralt almost pities the guards, who don’t know what they’re getting into but still have to follow the orders of their arrogant, overconfident lord, as he slips unnoticed out the back door of the house, making his way to the forest where the strongest pounding of magic in the air emits from. 

The guards are not at all quiet in the forest, assaulting Geralt’s senses with their smashing and crushing and stampeding of the underbrush, but Geralt tries not to focus on all that, and instead focuses on the lighter feet of the fae, the nearly undetectable presence of him as he escapes into his own natural territory. The cloud of magic, once laying heavy and dormant around Geralt, moves now - slowly, but still moving, following its owner and still carrying the thin bleed of his emotions through the trap of dimeritium around the fae’s neck. 

There’s a sharp crack of leaves off to his right, one not followed by a stampede of guards, and Geralt turns in that direction. He stands still, like a deer being hunted, and lets his senses reach out, passively processing all the information reaching them. 

The magic moves just slightly in the direction the snap came from; the natural scent of the fae drifts from that direction to Geralt’s nose, smelling like sweet lemongrass; and his eyes track a blur of white feathers among the green. 

Geralt starts moving forward, fast and silent, following the scent of the fae, the magic drifting around him, and whatever glimpses of the fae he can get with how fast he moves ahead of Geralt. The sound of the guards crashing through the underbrush is distant enough for them to be mostly safe, but Geralt can’t trust that they won’t be on them within seconds if they slow down - so he doesn’t. 

He takes a sharp turn and slips through the plants and grass, following the flash of white feathers, before he hears the whistle of air to his right and something dark comes catapulting through the air in front of him. There’s a dull thud and the sound of cheers coming from his right, and Geralt curses under his breath, moving faster still. 

He comes upon the fae, curled on the ground with a heavy iron net tangled around him. His wings and doublet are streaked with dirt, fear rolling off of him in waves as he tries to untangle himself from the net, magic trapped from the thin band of dimeritium still around his neck. 

Geralt smells the fae’s fear increase as his blue eyes land on the Witcher, writhing under the net, and he knows the fae is under the assumption that Geralt is going to kill him. Geralt reaches down, the fae’s wings fluttering one last time before he falls still, breath coming fast and eyes wide and terrified. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Geralt says, pulling the net off of the fae and stepping back to let him stand up. “But you have to go.” 

The fae nods, head tilting as both him and Geralt pick up on the sound of the guards rushing towards them, much closer than before. Geralt starts moving, running fast and silent away from the guards - and the fae follows, staying close behind him and moving just as quiet and quick as Geralt is. 

Geralt moves diagonally to the movement of the guards, aiming to get back to the inn and back to Roach before he leaves the town for good. He makes it to the edge of the treeline on the edge of town, a good distance away from where the guards are still searching for them, and turns to the fae to his right. 

Except, he’s gone, vanished as swift and silent as a bird, and suddenly Geralt finds he’s alone. 

It, strangely, makes something hurt in him, thinking that the fae left him as quickly as any other thing that met him. Even the creatures themselves don’t want to travel with him, even when he saves them he doesn’t get a goodbye. 

He shoves down the hurt, shoves down the color of translucent blue eyes and shining white feathers flashing in his vision, shoves down the image of soft, pale skin and a lithe body in a sapphire doublet. He shouldn’t have gotten so attached in such a short time - it was a job turned into a rescue mission and nothing else. 

Geralt sighs and starts the walk down to the inn. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's all fluff and them getting to know each other! :D

Halfway to the next town, Geralt feels magic drift around him - trapped, dormant, smelling like the air before a thunderstorm. 

And followed by the magic, the fae falls in step beside Roach, still dressed in his sapphire doublet that’s smudged with dirt and torn in several places, and dark hair tousled and messy. His wings are folded behind him, the sunlight reflecting off of both the white feathers, no longer streaked with dirt, and the dimeritium collar still around his neck. 

Geralt tries not to show his surprise, and denies his relief, but he raises an eyebrow at the fae’s sudden appearance and finds himself speaking anyway. 

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” he says. The fae turns around, walking backwards and shrugging before spinning back to face forwards. 

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” he says, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Can’t get this damned collar off, can’t put a glamour on to appear human - even though I may as well be human without my magic.”

Geralt frowns. “Fae don’t need their magic to be dangerous.”

The fae’s irritation turns his scent slightly sour, and Geralt makes sure to watch himself in the future so he doesn’t get on this fae’s bad side. Even without magic, he’d rather not have to face off against him when it can be avoided.

“Like fuck I don’t. My magic is everything that I am, Witcher, and without it I’m practically human, which isn’t a particularly amazing thing to be. They certainly don’t have a good reputation among… any species, really.” 

The fae glances back at Geralt. “Especially you, Witcher. Humans aren’t necessarily kind to you.”

Geralt inclines his head - the fae was right on that count. “Or you, little lark,” he replies.

Roach sidesteps abruptly, head held high, and Geralt is forced to pull her to a stop quickly, as the fae whips around faster than even Geralt’s eyes can track. His scent floods with anger, dormant magic sensing and reacting by crackling around Geralt, lashing against his skin and charging the air with a smell like before a thunderstorm. 

“ _ Don’t call me that,”  _ the fae hisses, blue eyes blazing and magic whipping around them like a storm. 

Geralt leans back, making himself as non-threatening as possible, and stays silent. The fae holds his eyes for a long, silent moment - Geralt’s hands start to twitch to his swords, thinking that he’s gone too far this time. 

Finally, his magic calms down, resting trapped and mostly dormant around them again, and the fae turns around and starts walking. Geralt kicks Roach back into a walk and follows him, still tense and wary. 

“It’s Jaskier,” the fae says, irritation still present in his scent. Geralt hums, the tension gradually bleeding from his posture as they continue walking and the fae -  _ Jaskier _ \- makes no other move against him. 

Jaskier’s hand drifts up to his neck, pale fingers pulling at the dimeritium collar and the irritation never leaving his scent. 

Erynd hadn’t had the keys to the collar when they were at the tower, and neither did the guards. Geralt knows Jaskier didn’t have time to find the keys, but he wishes he did. Dimeritium is difficult to create keys for, especially for thin locks like the one on the collar Jaskier is wearing, and Geralt is not going back to the lord’s mansion to find the keys for him. The fae couldn’t persuade him even with coin to do that. 

But, Geralt has already been drawn enough to the fae that he starts speaking without knowing exactly what he wants to say, or if it’s even true. The words tumble out in a way they haven’t since he was a boy at Kaer Morhen and didn’t think before he spoke. 

He finds he tends not to think in general around Jaskier. 

“We can find a way to get the collar off in the next town,” he says. Jaskier turns around in surprise, tilting his head, hand slowly dropping from where he was pulling at the collar. 

“You’re going to help me?” he asks. 

_ Fuck.  _ Geralt sighs. He would say no, but even he’s not that rude, and he’d rather not offend the fae by being impolite - one of the things fae value most is manners.

“Yes,” he grits out instead. 

And, maybe, though Geralt will deny this to his last breath, he doesn’t regret it so much when he sees the bright, genuinely happy smile lighting Jaskier’s face, and the scent of dandelions threading through the sweetness of the lemongrass. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier follows Geralt for the rest of the day, until night starts to fall and Geralt makes camp in the forest. Jaskier doesn’t do much while he makes camp - it’s a routine Geralt is accustomed to doing more efficiently by himself, like everything he does, and he frowns when Geralt offers him his bedroll. 

“Don’t you need a place to sleep?”

Geralt shrugs. “I can do without,” he says, and then finds himself continuing yet again, offering his services to the fae without expecting anything in return, “I can go into town and get you supplies tomorrow.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face again - and there it is, the smell of dandelions among Jaskier’s natural lemongrass scent. Geralt silently curses himself again - what is it about the fae that makes him so willing to help him?

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, then glances at Geralt’s bedroll. He tilts his head, eyes lighting with a new idea as he considers. “Maybe… we could share? It’s sure to be cold for you, and if you’re closer then…” He shifts his wings, unfolding them slightly from behind his back. “These are practically giant feathered blankets.”

Geralt frowns. He really doesn’t want to share a bedroll; they would be far too close to each other for comfort, and he doesn’t trust a fae to sleep so close to him - trapped magic or not. 

“Fine,” he growls instead - and mentally curses himself for the third time that day as Jaskier grins and joins Geralt in laying down on the bedroll by the dying fire. 

In the morning, Geralt wakes up first. Jaskier is curled against his side, laying mostly on his stomach, dark hair tousled and eyes closed. His white wings are hot, feathered weights spread over the both of them, and Geralt tries hard not to think about Jaskier’s lithe body pressed up against his and how peaceful the fae looks in sleep, the golden light of the rising sun pooling in the dips and curves of his pale skin. 

Geralt lets out a breath and studies the fae’s wings. He brings his hand up slowly and traces his fingers lightly along the feathers, feeling their softness and the way they fold against each other, making a flat, smooth surface. Jaskier shivers slightly when he skims his finger along the top edge of the wing, and Geralt pulls away just as the fae shifts and groans softly before settling. 

Jaskier frowns, eyes still closed. “Erynd…” he mumbles sleepily. “Don’t like that… stop…”

Geralt’s eyes widen at the implication of those words. He didn’t think Erynd was the kind to do… that sort of thing, to his creatures, but there’s only one reason Jaskier would say the lord’s name as if it was commonplace to wake up next to him in the morning, and it’s not because the lord let Jaskier take naps in his bed.

Jaskier opens his eyes slowly, wings shifting and fluttering up. Geralt watches the exact moment a small furrow appears between his brows when he’s met with Geralt’s black shirt rather than… whatever Erynd wears - or doesn’t wear - to bed. 

Jaskier pushes himself up, wings lifting off of Geralt and folding behind him, blue eyes meeting Geralt’s as he leans on his elbow. He sighs. 

“You heard me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Geralt hums, meeting the fae’s gaze with no judgment whatsoever. Jaskier closes his eyes, head bowing. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

Geralt frowns. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” 

Jaskier shakes his head and starts to stand. “You don’t want me burdening you, especially with my issues. You already rescued me once.”

Actually, Geralt doesn’t mind Jaskier burdening him. Usually, he wouldn’t care any more than making sure they were okay and he himself wasn’t causing the panic, but with Jaskier it’s different. He doesn’t just want to make sure he’s okay, he wants to talk him through his trauma and issues and be there, and he doesn’t only want to make sure he wasn’t causing it, but he wants to protect Jaskier from anything that would harm him - and fiercely, too. Even the thought of someone hurting Jaskier makes his fingers twitch for his sword and an almost dangerously calm wave of anger wash over him. 

“I don’t mind,” Geralt says, earning a surprised eyebrow raise from Jaskier. 

“You don’t?” 

Geralt glances down. “No,” he says, much quieter this time. It’s not his strong suit to admit his emotions, especially to a fae who can use them against him in the most damaging of ways. 

Jaskier smiles again, but this time it’s softer and his happiness is subtle and sweet in his scent. He doesn’t say anything, though, just turns around and sits cross-legged on the ground, extending one wing and starting to brush his fingers through the feathers while Geralt breaks camp. 

Several minutes later, Geralt is standing by Roach, tying his pack to her saddle, when he looks over and his eyes land on the fae, enhanced golden eyes taking in every detail. 

Gold light highlights his dark hair, pools like honey on his light skin, shimmers across his wings and turns them pale gold. The fae’s long, skilled fingers work methodically through the feathers in rhythmic motions, and Geralt doesn’t miss the soft, contented hum that leaves Jaskier’s mouth when he strokes in a particular way. The soft pink of his tongue sticks slightly out from between his teeth in concentration, and Geralt finds himself just as concentrated as he is on the movement of his fingers and the way the sunlight dances across his body. 

Jaskier looks up suddenly, blue eyes wide and trusting - Geralt’s gaze snaps suddenly away from his hands, and he feels like he doesn’t deserve the trust this fae has so easily put in him, but he will do his best not to break this fragile thing he’s been given. 

“Need something?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt blinks and looks away, focusing on Roach’s mane. “No,” he says roughly, shoving down the image seared in his mind of Jaskier sitting in the forest, haloed by the golden sunlight and wings glowing in the morning light. 

He isn’t successful. 

Geralt finishes tying the pack to Roach and turns to Jaskier, who hasn’t moved, but has continued to the other wing. He forces himself not to stare again - he can’t get attached to the fae, no matter how easy it would be or how much he wants to. It’ll only end in both of them being hurt, and Geralt doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier. “Stay here.”

Jaskier smiles and nods. “Sure.” He glances at his extended wing, one hand still buried in his feathers, and gives a small, wry laugh. “Can’t exactly walk through town with these.”

Geralt allows himself one last scan of the fae’s body, telling himself that he will be fine here and nothing will come after him, before he nods and mounts Roach to head towards the town. 

-0-0-0-

Once in town, Geralt visits the apothecary to refill his potions, before he goes to the market and visits the various stalls there. He ends up buying a dagger for Jaskier, as well as his own saddlebag and some clothes before his coin runs out. He doesn’t know what Jaskier likes to wear, but based on the sapphire doublet he’s been wearing, Geralt takes an educated guess and hopes that the fae likes it. 

He travels back to camp around noon, with everything he bought stored in the new saddlebag and a strawberry pastry wrapped in paper in his other hand. He didn’t have a lot of money, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he bought the pastry for Jaskier, but he saw it and something in him wanted to give the fae something frivolous. Something that isn’t necessary for them to survive. 

He’s almost to their camp when he hears singing, high and lilting, coming from in front of him. He pulls Roach to a stop, listening to the familiar accent, and sensing the way Jaskier’s magic, even dormant, weaves around Geralt and the plants around him, making everything brighter and the sun feel warmer on his skin. 

The song is about love - about the small, intimate parts of a relationship and the idea of being with someone forever - and Geralt feels the emotions in the song rise up in him as the magic affects him. It shouldn’t affect him - no magic does, but he finds himself being affected anyway, and he’s really not complaining. Jaskier is fae, after all; it makes sense his magic is more powerful than even Geralt’s mutations. The sensations of being loved ghost over his skin, and the images flash through his mind as Jaskier sings and Geralt’s eyes slip closed. 

What feels like seconds later, Jaskier’s voice trails off of the last note and Geralt is abruptly broken out of his reverie, all sensations and emotions and images vanishing as quickly as they’d come and leaving him strangely empty. He opens his eyes to see the fae leaning against a tree ahead of him, watching him with curiosity in his blue gaze. 

“Geralt?” he asks, voice soft and questioning.

Geralt grunts and kicks Roach forward, not replying, but letting Jaskier follow him back into camp and wait as he ties Roach and dismounts. He turns to the fae, whose eyes flick over what Geralt has in his hands, and suddenly feels his confidence leave him. He isn’t even sure whether Jaskier will like them - his coin, though more plentiful than usual, only went so far. It definitely wasn’t a lord’s budget, that was for certain. 

He offers the saddlebag first before he can talk himself out of it, raising his hand abruptly up to Jaskier. “I got you a bag, clothes and a weapon,” he says shortly. He never was good at affection, and he never presented gifts to anyone before either - except for Eskel and Lambert, and that was usually an occasion where they took the gifts from each other rather than presented them. 

Jaskier smiles and takes the saddlebag, opening it and pulling out the bundle of clothes. He gives a small gasp when he sees the bright, emerald green doublet and trousers, unfolding them and holding them up to himself, a bright grin lighting up his face. 

“ _ Geralt,”  _ he breathes, and the Witcher feels he would much rather be somewhere else right now instead of listening to how much Jaskier dislikes what he picked. 

Except, the fae turns his blue eyes up to Geralt’s and he looks happy, both in his scent and his wide smile. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, before draping the emerald outfit over the back of Roach and unfolding the second one, finding the small dagger and sheath within it. 

He picks up the dagger almost reverently, mouth open slightly in awe, and slides it out of its sheath, letting out another soft gasp as he examines the leather wrapping the hilt, the silver glinting in the light, and the yellow gemstone embedded at the bottom. Jaskier twirls the blade in his hands, watching how the sunlight catches the sharp edges, and Geralt’s breath catches slightly at the expertise with which he handles it, pale fingers dancing nimbly around the hilt as it’s twirled and curling easily over the leather once he finishes. He didn’t know Jaskier knew how to use a dagger, but he supposes that a fae would have to learn how to use weapons - it still surprises him, though. 

Jaskier slides the dagger back into its sheath carefully and sets it gently on the ground near Roach, then looks at the last item - the black outfit. 

It was expensive, taking up most of what Geralt spent that day, but when Jaskier holds it up to himself, it all proves worth it. The fabric shimmers in the light, blending from deep red to emerald green to a dark violet along with other shades, and the silver accents sparkle as they reflect the light. Geralt almost has too vivid of an image of how the outfit will hug Jaskier’s lithe body when he actually wears it, and how the fabric will contrast his pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes, and he has to glance away before it goes any further. He knows it will never happen - there is no possibility that a beautiful, powerful creature like the fae would be interested in a Witcher like him. 

Despite Geralt’s internal scolding that Jaskier would never like him, the fae glances up at Geralt with a wide, bright smile lighting up his face. “Thank you,” he says softly. Geralt allows his lips to quirk slightly up in an answering smile, and waits as Jaskier carefully folds up the outfits and puts them back into the saddlebag, tying the bag to Roach, before sliding the dagger into his boot. 

Geralt shifts, glancing down, all too aware of the thin band of dimeritium still encircling Jaskier’s neck. “I didn’t figure out how to get the collar off,” he says, almost ashamed. 

Jaskier shakes his head, smiling still, and walks forward. “You did enough for today. We can get the collar off later,” he says, hand landing on Geralt’s shoulder in a reassuring pat. 

Geralt nods and holds his hand up palm first, offering the last of his gifts - the strawberry pastry. “I… also got this,” he says slowly, simply. He doesn’t know what else to say, not when the slight brush of Jaskier’s fingers against his as he picks up the pastry feels like electricity shocking through Geralt. It makes something deep inside him ache, and all he wants is for Jaskier to keep touching him and showing him that affection that comes so easily to him. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says with a smile. He bites into the dough of the pastry and light pink strawberry cream comes bursting out. Geralt’s focus narrows on the pink of the fae’s tongue as it darts out to clean up the cream, and then, a couple bites later, the cream where it sticks to the corner of his lip. He desperately wants to wipe the cream away with his thumb, but he forces his gaze to flick away instead, and turns to Roach, pretending that his skilled, perfect knots need to be tied again, and definitely not focusing on the small moan Jaskier lets out behind him as he finishes the pastry. 

He waits for Jaskier to finish before they start traveling again, and he studiously doesn’t look at the fae the entire time they’re walking. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now it gets sad!

It takes them three months before they come across a town large enough to have a mage powerful enough to undo the enchantments surrounding Jaskier’s dimeritium collar. By then, Jaskier and Geralt have settled into an easy rhythm of living, moving like water around each other, knowing exactly where the other will be. Jaskier stays at camp when Geralt goes into town, and more than once Geralt has returned to find Jaskier hiding the bodies of bandits - or, on one memorable occasion, the body of a drowner, covered all over in small dagger marks. 

Jaskier can’t change from his sapphire doublet until he gets his collar off and can’t use a glamour to change clothes without having to cut slits for his wings, so Geralt tries to wash the outfit as best he can in nearby rivers and streams. It works for the most part - the monster blood leaves dark stains, though, and Geralt expects the fae to complain, but he never does. When Geralt asks, Jaskier says he’d be happy to let the whole outfit burn when he can. 

Occasionally, Jaskier sings - though most of the time he talks about anything and everything, which… would be annoying, but Geralt finds he’s gotten used to it; but if anyone asked, he would deny to his final breath that he likes the familiar sound of Jaskier’s chatter. His singing is one of the only times that the fae’s trapped magic works against anything. It weaves itself into the air every time, making foreign emotions rise up in Geralt, images flash through his mind, and sensations dance across his skin from memories that aren’t his own as the fae’s lilting voice rises up into the trees. 

Geralt saves enough coin for Jaskier’s own bedroll within a week, but more often than not he still finds the fae’s lithe body curled up against him, wings spread over the both of them and providing more warmth than any fire they could’ve built. He doesn’t really mind; at least he knows Jaskier is safe and warm when he’s curled against him than when he’s sleeping across from the fire. Geralt has never doubted his senses before, but he has never needed to protect anyone other than himself - which, he isn’t suicidal, but he has accepted the fact that death will come to him eventually on the Path. He doesn’t worry too much about himself if he doesn’t wake up in time, but just thinking about the idea of not waking up in time to save Jaskier makes a sort of panicked, protective energy rise in his chest. 

One day out from the town, they’re sitting around their campfire with the stars shining above them and the moon rising high in the sky. Jaskier is oddly silent, tearing up a leaf between his fingers and humming a quiet tune under his breath. There’s a heavy silence over them both - they know that if the sorceress is powerful enough to undo the complex enchantments around Jaskier’s collar, and forge a key to unlock it, their lives will change. For Jaskier, it will be his magic; he will have gotten the other half of himself back; he’ll be whole again. And for Geralt… he’ll have to get used to being alone again. There’s no chance that the fae will still want to travel with him, once he’s free and able to do whatever he wants with his magic. Geralt… hasn’t exactly come to terms with this, so he tries not to think about it, and instead looks up at the fae where he sits across the fire. 

“You’re quiet,” Geralt says. Jaskier stops humming and looks up, fingers stilling on the half-shredded dead leaf. 

Geralt meets his eyes for a silent moment before Jaskier glances down first, shaking his head slightly. His hair falls over his face and Geralt has the absurd urge to run his fingers through it. “I know. It’s just…” He trails off with a soft laugh, lips curling in a small smile. 

“It’s not guaranteed,” Geralt says quietly, because he knows the excited energy around Jaskier and he doesn’t want the fae to be hurt if the sorceress can’t get the collar off. Jaskier’s smile fades and he nods. 

“I know,” he says softly, solemnly. 

Geralt glances down, watching the fire dance and the embers rise into the air. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says, pauses. “I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he adds, nearly a whisper, but Jaskier hears it anyway, continuing to shred the leaf in his hands. They don’t meet each other’s eyes. 

“I won’t,” Jaskier replies, barely a breath and certainly not loud enough for any human to hear. 

But Geralt isn’t human, and the two words reach his ears easily. They feel like a lie, and they both fall silent, considering what may or may not happen tomorrow. 

Geralt stands up abruptly after a few moments and puts the fire out, laying on his bedroll and waiting for Jaskier to walk over and curl next to him in the quickly-chilling air, wings draping over them both. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep that night, too focused on savoring his last night of having Jaskier’s familiar warmth next to him, and a soft, lilting voice breathing _I won’t_ repeating in his head. 

-0-0-0-

Geralt wakes Jaskier early, before even the sun has started to rise. He doesn’t want anyone to see his wings, so the earlier they get to the mage’s house and safely inside, the less chance there is that there will be some townsfolk outside. He only hopes that they will leave with Jaskier’s magic released and a glamour on, because the noble’s mansion the mage has occupied is in the center of town and there’s no back exit they can leave from. 

Jaskier groans, still half-asleep, but they move through their routine as easily as ever, and Geralt allows himself to enjoy the way Jaskier’s dark hair is still tousled and his voice is fuzzy with sleep. Geralt wants to be able to see Jaskier like that every time he wakes up, to always have the fae next to him in the morning - but he won’t. He has to accept that Jaskier will leave him once he’s free, no matter how much it hurts him to do so. 

They walk into the front room of the mansion, and the servant girl squeaks out a ‘yes, sir’ and rushes upstairs when they tell her what they’re here for. The mage comes down soon after, greeting them dressed in a sparkling black dress that sways gracefully around her ankles and kohl drawn delicately across her bright green eyes. She introduces herself as Nyla, and her glance flits between Geralt and Jaskier as they stand in the room, until it finally lands on Jaskier and idle curiosity fills her eyes as her lips curl up in a lazy smile. 

“A fae and a Witcher,” she says slowly, leisurely. “That’s an odd combination to show up on my doorstep.”

Jaskier fidgets, the same kind of excited energy about him that Geralt had discouraged him from having. They’re not even sure whether this mage can take his collar off, but with his magic in almost arm’s reach, Geralt can’t blame the fae for getting his hopes up. 

Geralt fixes Nyla with a steady glare. “We need his collar taken off. We’ll pay any price.”

She tilts her head, emerald eyes moving down Jaskier’s body slowly, considering. She steps forward, walking around Jaskier, and Geralt tenses as he watches the fae go perfectly still. He remembers another morning, before they had learned each other, and sleepy mumblings of Erynd’s name and pleas to stop. He feels the same panicked, protective energy rise in his chest again, and he has to force himself to keep still to prevent himself from attacking the mage, even as his fingers twitch and he focuses on the weight of his swords on his back. 

Nyla’s long, thin fingers reach up as she walks behind Jaskier, and she smiles slowly, hands tracing along the edge of Jaskier’s wing. Jaskier’s eyes snap shut, his entire body falling unnaturally still, and Geralt hears his breath stutter before it evens out into a measured rhythm that speaks of forced calm against the clearly unwanted touch. Nyla digs her fingers beneath his feathers and Jaskier gasps softly, wings jerking away. 

Geralt growls, anger surging through him suddenly, and Nyla only laughs, high and mocking. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your little pet,” she purrs, causing fear to flood Jaskier’s scent and sting Geralt’s nose. He gives another low growl - how dare she insinuate that Jaskier is under anyone’s control. Geralt would sooner stab someone than let them control the fae again.

“He’s not my pet,” Geralt grits out - and the fear in Jaskier’s scent fades, though the tension doesn’t leave his body. It’s not hard to figure out why Geralt’s response was the one that made Jaskier less scared, and the Witcher wonders what in their month-long relationship ever made Jaskier think that Geralt expected that of him. He rescued him from Lord Erynd for a reason, and that was not to put him right back into captivity. Geralt laments the fact that he didn’t give Erynd a long, painful death, because Jaskier shouldn’t think that he’d be wanted as a pet before being wanted as a friend.

Nyla grins and shrugs, walking around Jaskier to the front to face him. “Fine. Then he can be mine. One month of the fae’s company _alone,_ and I will take his collar off.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, fear flooding right back into his scent. He freezes, blue eyes flicking to Geralt, and Nyla watches the two with that infuriating smirk on her face, eyes dancing with cruel amusement. Geralt wants to punch the expression off of her.

He’s fully prepared to say no, because he is not going to allow this entitled sorceress to take Jaskier and enslave him, again, but it’s not his decision to make. The heavy weight of Jaskier’s trapped magic drifts around him, as familiar as his own swords by now, and Geralt stays silent. He has no say in how Jaskier gets the other half of himself back, even if it’s in a way that goes against every protective fiber in his body, because he is not going to be like Lord Erynd and keep a creature as free and wild as Jaskier in captivity.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he says, surprisingly confident despite the overwhelming, acrid scent of fear coming off of him in waves. “No. We can find another sorceress. You can find another to keep you company, but it won’t be me.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier turns around, raising his chin even as his fear increases. He takes a few steps forward, and Geralt is too focused on watching him leave to notice the deep frown on Nyla’s face and the harsh edge of anger in her scent before she lashes out, catching the edge of Jaskier’s wing and tugging hard. 

Jaskier gasps sharply, turning around as Nyla lets go and leans back when Geralt’s sword presses dangerously against her throat. He’s extremely tempted to draw blood, but they’re already on the bad side of the sorceress and he’s not sure how that would increase their chances of leaving the mansion alive.

“ _Don’t touch him,”_ Geralt growls, his whole body tense with the anger and adrenaline rushing through him. Every sense is on high alert, hyper-aware of every small movement. 

“He said _no,”_ Geralt hisses. Nyla’s green eyes hold his, her magic drifting around the both of them, until Jaskier’s hand brushes lightly along Geralt’s arm. 

“Geralt,” he says softly, almost pleading, and it’s only that which makes Geralt lower his blade and step back. Nyla glances between the two, slowly smirking as she redefines their relationship. 

“It appears to be the other way around - the fae has made the Witcher his pet instead. Tell me, is it effective having a Witcher as a personal guard dog?” she asks. 

Jaskier is silent, though Geralt can see the anger in every line of his body, and he’s mildly surprised at the sudden surge of sharp anger in the fae’s scent. It’s also the first moment since Geralt rescued Jaskier that his magic has responded to anything but his singing, and Geralt can smell the thunderstorm of magic stirring in the air around them, lashing out violently against the sorceress. Even if it doesn’t do anything, something warm fills Geralt at the proof of how quickly Jaskier would defend him - though, maybe the fae takes it as an insult to his honor rather than an insult to Geralt. He can never be sure, and it’s easier not to get his hopes up than be disappointed when Jaskier tells him he’ll leave him once he has his magic back. 

“He’s my friend, not my pet,” Jaskier says, voice lethally soft and dripping with dark, dangerous promise. 

Nyla shrugs, pretending to examine her nails. “Whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t matter. There are no other mages powerful enough to undo those enchantments without having to travel hundreds of miles for it, and I’m sure you won’t be able to keep hidden for that long. Even three months has been a struggle, has it not?” she asks, tone knowing. 

Jaskier’s anger doesn’t last long as she calls them out - because she’s right. Geralt barely got enough contracts for himself on a good week, and having to take care of a second person while hiding them? It was difficult, because the expenses that Geralt used to spend on inns were now spent on food for both of them, and ever since he earned his new title in Blaviken, coin has been running shorter than it’s ever been. Geralt finds himself hunting more often than not, and he thinks that by now, he knows the taste of dried jerky better than the taste of actual food. 

His shoulders slump and his eyes flick to Geralt, wide and blue and apologetic. Geralt’s heart sinks as Jaskier looks back at the sorceress. “I accept, but Geralt has to stay. I will not cooperate without him.”

Nyla frowns, displeased emerald gaze darting between the two of them, before her expression smooths and she smiles, amusement replacing the displeasure in her eyes. It makes Geralt uneasy and even more wary than before, but they’re both at her mercy now and there’s not much he can do about it. 

“Excellent!” she says brightly, and the last thing Geralt hears is the sound of her clap, and Jaskier’s surprised protest, before enchanted darkness takes him, quick and quiet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, by the end of the fic you'll all want to give nyla some painful, torturous death (even i did)


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt wakes up on something soft, with golden light shining in his eyes as he slowly opens them. He’s met with a four-poster bed, covered in lavish blankets and furs, and the rest of the room is the same way. It’s all very luxurious and smells almost sickeningly like flowers - Geralt wonders why the nobility like their floral perfumes so much, because he doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger, but rather like he’s being pampered. Normally, that thought would make him even warier than before, but he’s at the mercy of a manipulative sorceress and he won’t waste energy on worrying unless it becomes something he needs to worry about. 

He slides out of the bed, and it’s then that he notices Jaskier isn’t here - which, fuck his plan about not worrying, that makes his heart rate speed up and adrenaline and fear course through his body at an almost dizzying rate. His eyes dart around as he takes true stock of his surroundings - he can’t see his swords, there’s two side doorways that he assumes leads to a closet and a bath, as well as a front door to the room that’s simple oak wood. The posts of the bed he supposes can be easily broken off and used as an impromptu weapon, though the vase sitting on the table in the corner is much more reliable than depending on whether he can break off the bedpost with sheer strength. 

Geralt scans the room and finds nothing else, but his frantic energy doesn’t subside and he searches the room. The front door is locked, the closet is empty save for a few clothes that look like they were picked for him, and the bath is, for some reason, decked out with an array of expensive soaps and fragrant oils. Geralt searches the drawers and tables and finds absolutely nothing - the contents of this room are an outrageous amount of furs and blankets, an equally absurd amount of soaps and oils, a few clothes, a vase, a lamp, and nothing more. Geralt ends up standing in the middle of the room after his search, frustrated and worried and more than slightly panicking as he wonders where Nyla took Jaskier. 

It’s not that he’ll be able to do anything against Nyla in his current unarmed state, but he’d at least like to know where the fae is. He wants to know whether Nyla is hurting him, and if she is, just how much pain he is going to have to inflict on her once they’re out of this contract. No one hurts Jaskier and gets away with it as long as Geralt’s concerned, not even a sorceress who’s under the guise of helping them. 

The lock clicks and Geralt’s eyes snap to the door, hyper-focusing as his senses go on high alert trying to sense who’s coming. Part of him wants to tense up, and the other wants to stay relaxed in case it’s Jaskier on the other side of that door. 

There’s a flash of gold, white feathers, and pale skin, and Geralt finds himself rushing forward faster than he wanted, stepping close to Jaskier as he enters and shuts the door behind him. Geralt is too focused on Jaskier to protest as the lock clicks closed and they’re trapped together in the room. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier says eloquently, leaning back against the wall. He’s dressed in a sheer gold dress with slits in the back for his wings - it’s the first time he’s worn an outfit other than his sapphire doublet and trousers and occasionally one of Geralt’s shirts because they’re loose enough to go over his wings without hurting them. Jaskier’s arms and wings both wrap around himself, and Geralt prevents himself from touching, letting Jaskier have his space despite how much he wants to hold him tight and close. He stands awkwardly in front of him, concerned but having no idea what to do as Jaskier shivers and meets Geralt’s eyes. 

“What did she do?” Geralt asks, as restrained as he can manage. 

Jaskier glances down and shakes his head, brow furrowing. “Nothing. She… she didn’t do anything. She made me have dinner with her and then just, let me go.” He swallows and takes a breath. “I wandered around for a few hours, but they wouldn’t let me go near your room until just now when they practically forced me into it. Not that I’m complaining, by the way,” he adds hurriedly at the way Geralt deflates just slightly. 

Geralt frowns. “You think she won’t hurt us at all?”

Jaskier pushes off the wall and walks past Geralt, who turns to watch him make his own search of the room as he talks. 

“No, she is definitely planning on hurting us,” he says. “Well, me actually. She didn’t seem interested in you at all.”

Geralt hums. That is not ideal - he’d rather Nyla hurt him than Jaskier, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? If she hurts Jaskier, she hurts Geralt and she doesn’t even need to figure out how to get past a Witcher’s physical pain tolerance enough for true torture. Emotional and mental pain is just as damaging as physical, but Geralt has nowhere near the tolerance for those. It scares him how easily he can be hurt just by imagining Jaskier being hurt, but he doesn’t regret it at all. He would not trade this pain for not loving Jaskier in any lifetime. 

And - that’s what it is, Geralt knows. Love. He may be emotionally repressed, but it doesn’t mean he can’t identify his feelings before he represses them, and love is not one that he can shove down, especially for someone who shines as bright and beautiful as Jaskier. Which, is both a blessing and a curse, because it makes his entire life brighter when Jaskier is around, but he knows the fae doesn’t love him back and he will have to deal with heartbreak when Jaskier eventually leaves. 

Well, Geralt thinks, he can’t say he doesn’t understand Jaskier’s songs about love and heartbreak anymore. 

Jaskier opens the closet and frowns, pulling out one of the black shirts meant for Geralt. “Did she only give clothes for you? Really? I’m expected to wear this dress - which, is quite beautiful but given that a manipulative sorceress has given it to me, I don’t much like it - to bed?” He looks down at the offending outfit, pulling on his sleeve as he talks. “Because first off, the material is scratchy, honestly, who makes a dress with such awful material? And second off, I’m practically naked - this is so sheer and loose that it’ll ride up on me at night.” 

Geralt walks over and takes the shirt from him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing,” he says, putting the shirt back on its hanger and hooking it in the closet. 

Jaskier’s mouth drops open and his eyes track Geralt as the Witcher walks over to the far side of the bed and pulls off his shirt. “Geralt,” he breathes, mock-scandalized, “are you insinuating you’d rather me sleep next to you with no clothes?”

Geralt shrugs nonchalantly. “Unless you’d rather sleep ‘practically naked’ on the floor.” He lays on the bed and pulls the covers over him, smirking at Jaskier’s shocked face. 

Jaskier composes himself, mouth closing suddenly, and now _he’s_ the one smirking, which makes Geralt quickly regret his actions as Jaskier strips off the dress and lays next to him in nothing but his smallclothes. 

_Fuck_. 

They’d never slept together with anything less than a shirt and trousers on, and Geralt has to hide his body’s natural reaction to the fae’s long, lithe body pressed against him - now so much closer and intimate than usual. It’s everything he’s wished for, both a blessing and a curse because Jaskier knows exactly what he’s doing to him, but he also doesn’t know the stab of pain he gives Geralt at the thought of this starting his last month of having Jaskier with him. 

Jaskier smirks up at Geralt. “You asked for this, remember that.”

Geralt mentally curses himself again, and doesn’t get to sleep that night. 

-0-0-0-

The dreams start three days after. 

Geralt wakes to Jaskier twitching next to him the first time, his usually peaceful face contorted in confusion and fear rolling off of him in waves, the acrid scent stronger than Geralt has ever smelled it from Jaskier. 

“Jaskier?” he asks softly, but still firm. He gets no response other than a soft whimper, and he leans up on his elbow, watching as Jaskier starts twisting and turning wildly, repeating a string of _no_ and _don’t_ and something Geralt can’t make out. He frowns, unsure what to do, but seeing Jaskier’s distress has his whole body tensing and adrenaline starting to run through it as Geralt slightly panics, wanting to help Jaskier but having no idea how to do it. He had helped Lambert with his nightmares at Kaer Morhen during the trials when he was young, helped by Eskel, but that was so long ago that Geralt doesn’t remember how he did it, and Jaskier isn’t quite the same as Lambert. 

Geralt watches Jaskier’s hand hit hard on the headboard and winces. He decides to help by moving forward, avoiding getting hit by the fae’s flailing wings and other limbs as he pins Jaskier down, not wanting him to hurt himself, and tries to shake him awake while keeping him mostly still. Jaskier only struggles, twisting and crying out beneath Geralt. His voice is full of so much pain and fear that Geralt lets him go, pushing himself back so fast that he almost falls off the bed, eyes wide. He never wants to hear Jaskier sound like that because of him - and he knows it wasn’t really him, but it was close enough that the fear still paralyzes Geralt as he watches the fae writhe in the sheets. 

“ _Geralt,”_ he says, voice rough and harsh and panicked, and Geralt inhales sharply. Jaskier’s breathing starts to increase, fast enough that Geralt knows it’s unhealthy, and he surges forward, half-pinning and half-shaking Jaskier hard enough to make his eyes snap open and his breathing stutter, coming too fast and too sharp for several tense moments until it slowly evens out. Jaskier breathes slowly in and out, and the frantic, rabbit-fast thudding of his heart echoes in Geralt’s ears. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says roughly, half relief and half question. The fae’s blue eyes flick to him briefly before focusing on the sheets. Geralt waits, hands holding Jaskier’s arms as he sits up, until he seems calm enough that Geralt releases his arms, sitting back on his heels and using his unerring focus to track every small movement Jaskier makes. 

“I’m fine,” he says dismissively, despite the way his heartbeat is not quite slowed completely down and fear still lightly stings Geralt’s senses. “Just… just a nightmare.”

Geralt frowns. “You haven’t had those since I rescued you.”

There was more than one time that Geralt woke to Jaskier’s screams and pleads of _no_ and _stop_ and _don’t_ , and he couldn’t do anything because Jaskier was dreaming of a man’s hands on him, and he would only make it worse. Erynd did things to Jaskier that Geralt still wanted to kill him for - kill him slowly, and painfully, over the course of several days. Geralt had to sit by during these nightmares, listening to Jaskier’s rabbit-fast heartbeat thud in his ears and the acrid scent of fear flooding the air, and committing both the sound and smell to memory as something in his own nightmares. 

Jaskier gives a dry, bitter laugh. “Guess noble mansions don’t have good memories tied to them.”

Geralt hums and glances down, pausing for a moment, before he speaks quietly. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier closes his eyes, breathing evenly, heart rate brought back down to normal, but his scent is still tinged with fear and Geralt wonders what the nightmare was about that made him so scared. Not even the nightmares he had about Erynd were this bad, and he wants to be able to comfort Jaskier through it, but he doesn’t know how. This is different than the ones about Erynd, and he doesn’t know what’s expected of him here. Geralt supposes he has to settle for letting Jaskier work through it himself, though it hurts him to do so. 

Jaskier nods slowly. “Yeah. I’m-“ he laughs bitterly, “I’m as good as I can be.”

Geralt lays down on his back, golden eyes tracking Jaskier, senses attuned to every small signal he gives off whether in scent, body language, or his own magic, which drifts around them, still trapped and dormant. Jaskier looks back at Geralt, pausing before laying down next to him and- 

Geralt freezes as Jaskier lays his head on his chest, warm breath fanning lightly over his skin. They’ve never slept this close even when they were camping on cold nights, and Geralt is afraid that he’ll somehow break this fragile trust Jaskier has put in him. He feels the fae relax, long fingers tracing small circles on his chest in repetitive, soothing motions, and Geralt finds himself relaxing in response to the pattern, reflexively focusing on it. He brings his arm around to wrap around Jaskier’s back, starting his own pattern with his thumb, rubbing the spot between Jaskier’s wings. 

Jaskier shivers slightly and lets out a soft sigh of contentment, sagging further into him. Geralt waits, not falling asleep quite yet, the images of Jaskier writhing on the bed and the echo of his name being said so brokenly by the fae playing in his mind. Eventually, though, he feels the exact moment several minutes later when Jaskier slips into sleep, breathing evening out and body falling soft against Geralt’s chest. 

Despite himself, Geralt falls asleep soon after, and neither of them dream for the rest of the night. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter today because the banquet is one long scene and fits one average chapter

A week after Geralt first finds himself locked in the room, and four days of waking in the middle of the night to Jaskier twisting in the sheets and calling Geralt’s name out in a jagged, broken voice, with the faint scent of Nyla’s magic on Jaskier, the sorceress comes into their room in the early morning and wakes them both with a sharp lash of magic against their tangled bodies. Geralt sits up sharply, his first thought wondering how the mage entered the room without him waking up, and Jaskier flinches and groans from beside him, sitting up slowly. His hair is messy and eyes half-closed - Geralt wants to run his hands through the fae’s hair, coax him back to sleep with Geralt right next to him, but he knows he can’t and he has much more pressing issues right now than Jaskier’s sleepy state. 

“Come on, both of you,” Nyla says impatiently. “I’m having guests tonight and I expect you to sing,” she pointedly looks at Jaskier, then at Geralt, “and you to stay by my right hand.”

Geralt fights the urge to sigh. He knows exactly why Nyla wants him as her right hand - and it’s not because she trusts him. No, she just wants her guests to know how powerful she is, and she wants the power trip of knowing she can keep a Witcher by her side. Dozens of other noble lords and ladies have tried it, and if it was up to Geralt, he’d slip away from the table and out of the room the earliest chance he got - he did, several times before. 

But, Jaskier wants to cooperate with her to get his magic back, and he isn’t going to ruin the fae’s chances because Geralt is being put on display like a rare artifact. 

Jaskier frowns from where he sits next to Geralt. “You can’t expect me to sing without my collar being taken off. Everyone there will notice my wings if I don’t have a glamour on,” he says. 

Nyla smiles, but it doesn’t have any humor in it and it makes Geralt uneasy. “Don’t worry, songbird. I know enough magic that you’ll be just fine, and I have an instrument prepared for you already.”

Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s scent briefly fills with anger when she calls him songbird, and it reminds him far too much of a noble lord and the words  _ little lark  _ being said in a similarly smug accent. He makes a mental note to make Nyla pay for that remark - it’s bad enough Jaskier is getting nightmares again, he doesn’t need to be reminded of Erynd any more than he already is from living in the noble’s mansion the sorceress stole. 

Nyla pulls two outfits out of thin air and lays them on the bed in front of them. “You’ll wear these to the celebration tonight,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument - not like Geralt and Jaskier could give one anyway. 

Jaskier slides off of the bed and walks over to look at the outfit obviously picked for him. Geralt doesn’t move, but his eyes flick over to Nyla and he watches her eyes rake down Jaskier’s body, arousal and appreciation threading through her scent. A low, protective growl rises in Geralt’s throat. 

Nyla seems to sense this, because she looks up at Geralt with a smirk on her face and steps closer to Jaskier, not breaking eye contact. 

“Get dressed quickly,” she purrs in the fae’s ear. Geralt watches Jaskier tense, going unnaturally still as she leans so close she’s almost pressed up against him. “I have plans for you today.”

Jaskier’s voice is oddly flat when he replies, and it ruffles Geralt in all the wrong ways, like a cat who’s brushed backwards. “Yes, Nyla.”

Nyla grins, fingers trailing along Jaskier’s shoulder as she pulls away, breaking eye contact with Geralt, and walks to the door, stopping at the doorway and looking back at Jaskier. Geralt’s eyes track her every movement, anger and protectiveness coursing through him and his mind running through all the lethal and non-lethal places he could stick his sword in the sorceress. Not for the first time, he wishes he wasn’t constantly locked in the room for days on end, with nothing to do except worry about Jaskier and deal with the damage when he was let back into the room at night. 

“I expect you downstairs in ten,” she says to Jaskier, and then her gaze moves to Geralt. “Witcher, you’ll have food brought up to you and be escorted downstairs when I want you.” 

She closes the door, the lock clicking loudly into place and echoing in the quiet room. 

Jaskier’s entire body relaxes all at once, a sigh of relief leaving him as he turns to Geralt. “I truly hate that woman,” he informs him, with all the expected emotion in his voice. Geralt feels his own relief flood through him, though he still doesn’t like imagining what Nyla does to the fae to make him have to speak like that in front of her. It sounds all wrong to him, and Geralt doesn’t ever want to hear that sort of flat, emotionless tone come from Jaskier again - even though the horrifying tone is practically seared into his mind now. 

Jaskier picks up his outfit, holding it up with both hands. They’re both lavish, with much more color than Geralt would ever willingly wear and just enough color and extravagance for Jaskier. The fae’s outfit is a sheer black dress, shimmering with small stars embellished on it and sparkling with sapphire accents. Nyla added some sapphire earrings and a necklace to it, and together, the ensemble brings out Jaskier’s near-translucent blue eyes, the contrast striking with his pale skin and dark hair. Geralt doesn’t miss the reason why Nyla chose such an outfit - he looks beautiful in it, and Nyla gets to put him on display in front of the entire ballroom, like a prized pet. Which, Jaskier has already been for far too long in his life. 

Jaskier slides the dress on, and Geralt feels the wave of magic pulse through the air just as Jaskier’s wings vanish and he gasps, yanking the dress down over his hips as fast as possible and letting it pool on the floor around his ankles. 

“No. Nope,” Jaskier says quickly, almost hysterically, his magic stirring slightly from where it drifts around them. Geralt moves to slide off the bed as Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, fear and panic threading through his scent, eyes darting from the dress to Geralt. Geralt hadn’t known how special Jaskier’s wings were to him, but he supposes that they would be important. They’re part of what makes him fae, after all - Jaskier wants desperately to be human, but he still will fiercely protect what makes him inhuman anyway. 

Geralt steps close to Jaskier, not touching as the fae looks up at him again, blue eyes wide and panicked. “I can’t wear that,” he says. “It feels too- too complete, it’s like they’re being taken away from me and it’s-“

Jaskier trails off, eyes darting around, panic flooding his scent and his magic charging the air in response. Geralt frowns and brushes his fingers along Jaskier’s arm, bringing his attention to him as his eyes snap to Geralt. 

“Jaskier,” he says, and stops, unsure how to continue. He pauses, trying to figure out what to say next. 

“They’re… not actually gone,” he settles for, lamely, and curses himself for not being better at words. 

Jaskier sighs, running one hand through his hair again, the panic edging slightly off of his scent at the familiarity of Geralt’s terrible relationship with words. “Yeah, I know. Manipulative fucking sorceress,” he says bitterly. He picks up the dress after sending it a glare and slowly slides it on. Geralt can feel the shiver he gives when the magic falls into place and his wings disappear, slicing right through like a knife. Geralt reaches forward and waves his hand through the air where his wings were, but there’s nothing there except the low thrum of magic that isn’t his own surrounding Jaskier. 

Jaskier lets out a low, carefully controlled breath that’s just on the edge of panicking, and puts on a tight smile, meeting Geralt’s eyes. “Well. Another day, right?” he says, far too cheerfully. 

Geralt hums, something uneasy settling in his stomach. He doesn’t like how Jaskier is being made so uncomfortable by this dress, all so the sorceress can show him around like a pretty piece of jewelry. And, Nyla seemed far too eager for Jaskier to come downstairs. It makes Geralt still more protective of the fae, even as he holds back from doing anything - because he can’t, really. Jaskier chose to let Nyla keep them essentially captive for the month, and as long as Jaskier doesn’t go back on that, Geralt has to cooperate, no matter how much it goes against every protective instinct he has. 

They both jump and tense as they feel a sharp wave of magic lash abruptly through the room, Nyla’s annoyance tied with it as a warning to Jaskier about being late. Jaskier sighs, giving one last forlorn glance at Geralt before he leaves the room, black dress swaying gracefully around his legs, and Geralt is left alone in the locked room with all too active an imagination of what Nyla could do to Jaskier. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first off, this is really a self-indulgent fic, so if it doesn't make sense then ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> and second, there are mentions of rape/non-con in this chapter, and a fade-to-black scene of it

It’s mid-afternoon and Geralt is spending his third day testing the scents and magic humming around the vast array of oils and soaps in the bath when one of Nyla’s servant boys comes to get him. 

He hears the boy’s footsteps and sets down the vial of oil he’s holding, corking it and rising from his crouch on the side of the bath. Nyla hadn’t given him anything else to do in the room while she locked him in for hours on end, so he had to find something to do or he’d go insane worrying about Jaskier, and the oils and soaps have just enough magic tied to them that Geralt finds new layers every day. 

The boy raises an eyebrow, standing in the doorway, and Geralt can practically smell the condescension and dislike rolling off of him. He sighs, walking past the boy and out into the main room without saying a word. Geralt should’ve known that Nyla, of all people, would have servants that happened to hate Witchers rather than fear them. The boy’s expression is something very close to a sneer as he opens the door and leads Geralt out, the magic enchanting the door falling for just a moment to let him out. 

The noble mansion is bigger than he thought it would be; the hallways are long and winding, and the ceilings rise high above them as Geralt is led downstairs. The staircase - and, the whole mansion, really - is overly extravagant, trimmed in ornate, decorative gold and spiraling down to the first floor. Geralt doesn’t understand why the nobility need such extravagance, other than greed and vanity. In his opinion, he’d rather sleep under the stars or in a small, cramped inn with all of his possessions either on him or in a saddlebag than spread out over this lavishness. It’s more efficient, versatile, and easier to move around in general - plus, much less likely to be stolen. 

But, the nobles will live life as they wish, and he doesn’t have much time to judge them anyway because the servant boy is leading him into what looks like a living room and Jaskier is there, sitting in his black dress on an ottoman, while Nyla is sitting in a soft armchair in front of him with a tray of fruits on her lap. They’re both sitting, but there’s something about the way the ottoman is lower than Nyla’s chair that makes the positions seem like Jaskier is the lower one in this relationship - which, Geralt doesn’t put it past Nyla for that to be her exact reason why. 

Nyla holds a strawberry in her fingers and offers it to Jaskier - and that’s when Geralt sees the ropes, trapping Jaskier’s hands behind his back, confirming his observation that Jaskier is being made to be the submissive one - though, Nyla can’t expect the fae to actually follow along with her plans. He watches as Jaskier leans forward, taking the strawberry delicately between his teeth before pulling away, and derives some strange satisfaction from seeing him do it with as little contact with Nyla as possible. He thinks it’s on purpose, too, because a slight hint of satisfaction threads through Jaskier’s scent as well. 

Jaskier turns to see Geralt walking in and he grins, completely ignoring the displeased frown on Nyla’s face as she watches him. “Geralt!” he says brightly - almost  _ too _ brightly. Geralt has learned enough of Jaskier’s nuances that he can see when he’s faking - and he is definitely faking. His scent is an overwhelming, confusing mix of fear and pain, contentment and Nyla’s magic all at once, and his entire body is tense from where he sits bound on the ottoman. Geralt can feel both Nyla’s magic and Jaskier’s magic humming around him, locked in a silent war with each other - which, he can feel Nyla winning, because her magic isn’t trapped like Jaskier’s. 

Nyla looks at Geralt as the servant boy runs off somewhere else, emerald eyes sharp, and indicates the wall to Geralt’s right with her head. “Go stand over there,  _ quietly _ . I want to finish my time with my songbird in peace.”

Geralt tries not to growl at  _ my songbird -  _ Nyla has absolutely no claim over Jaskier except for a month-long contract she practically forced him into. It’s a close thing, but Geralt stays just barely silent and walks over to the wall she indicated, standing with his back against it. He doesn’t miss how this position puts him behind Jaskier, so the fae is forced to focus on Nyla as she selects another piece of fruit, yet Geralt has a near-perfect view of the proceedings. A surge of irritation rises in Geralt at this obvious claim Nyla is trying to lay on Jaskier, even though he knows Jaskier won’t stand for it either if she goes too far. 

Jaskier, again, takes the piece of cantaloupe she’s offering him with his teeth and without touching her, and Geralt senses the harsh edge of anger on her scent. She pushes her fingers purposefully forward on the next piece, forcing Jaskier’s tongue to brush against them, and the fae’s scent simmers with irritation as this continues, wings folding tight against his back and body still tense. Geralt studies Jaskier’s scent, which is a confusing blend of fear and pain and contentment, and then focuses on the magic humming around the room. He didn’t think Nyla would try to force Jaskier to feel content using her magic, but his scent says it all and her magic is far too close to Jaskier to simply be existing around them. Geralt doesn’t want to know what Nyla did to Jaskier to make the fear and pain so potent in his scent - he only wants to make her pay for it once they finish this deal. 

The third time Nyla tries to force Jaskier to give her pleasure by taking some lewd enjoyment of the hand feeding, he bites down hard and she yanks her finger away with a gasp. Jaskier smiles as he finishes chewing the fruit, blue eyes sharp and scent threading with satisfaction as he looks at her. “Even I have my limits, Nyla,” he says neutrally, but there’s a hint of warning in his tone and Geralt tries not to smile as Nyla’s lip curls in frustration, huffing, and she sets aside the tray, standing up suddenly. 

Geralt smells the fear in Jaskier’s scent increase, and he tenses, adrenaline rushing through him as he prepares to protect the fae, consequences be damned. It was Nyla’s decision to let him come down here, and if she expects him to stand aside while she works out some kind of twisted punishment for not indulging her own pleasure, then she is sorely mistaken. Geralt won’t hesitate to protect Jaskier - the fear in his scent is sharp and acrid and sets Geralt on edge. He’ll be all too happy to work off this tense energy on the sorceress. 

Nyla doesn’t do anything, however - only turns to face them both. “Follow me,” she orders, and turns without looking to see if they would actually obey, walking down the hallway. 

Geralt doesn’t move from the wall. Jaskier looks over at him from where he sits, hands still tied behind his back - which sends another rush of anger through Geralt every time he notices it - and his blue eyes are filled with trepidation, fear tinging his scent. Geralt hates it; hates how Nyla is using the fae’s weakness against him, powerful as he is. 

Geralt pushes off of the wall and walks over to Jaskier as he stands up. Wordlessly, he deftly unties the rope from his arms and lets it fall on the floor, shoving down the warmth that fills him at Jaskier’s resulting smile and the faint scent of dandelions that slowly blooms in his scent, and walks down the hallway, listening to Jaskier follow him. 

They find Nyla in the grand ballroom, where there’s servants rushing about making last-minute preparations, and she stands and waits for them to stop in front of her. Her eyes flick to Jaskier’s freed arms and her lips twitch, the mostly-faded edge of anger in her scent rising. Geralt tenses, hands drifting to a sword that isn’t there. 

“You will both sit at the high table with me during the banquet,” she says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument - not that they could, anyway. “And you,” she looks at Jaskier, “will sing and play for us when I tell you to.”

A low growl rises in Geralt’s throat at that - Jaskier is being shown off,  _ used  _ for his abilities. He’s nothing more than a possession to Nyla, something that plays and sings on command like a music box, does whatever else she wants. It’s sickening, but Geralt can’t do anything, he reminds himself. He is not going to ruin Jaskier’s chances at getting his magic back because he can’t control himself and let the fae make his own decisions, even if they hurt him. 

So, Geralt pushes the growl down and stays quiet, following Nyla as she leads them to the high table. “Sit down. The guests will be arriving soon. I expect you both to have proper manners,” she orders, a threat in her voice. Geralt silently sits on her left side, and watches as Jaskier takes the seat to her right when she points to it. He wonders why she makes Jaskier her right hand, especially when she promised Geralt the right side this morning, when they’re only there for another three weeks - the statement she makes is useless. Jaskier is only a bard as far as the humans are concerned - no one in that court will know he’s a fae, and so they won’t get Nyla’s subtle power play at keeping him under her control. It would’ve made a much stronger statement by keeping Geralt on her right side, more than it is by putting him on her left side. 

But, Geralt isn’t interested in dissecting the thought processes of insane, manipulative sorceresses, so he watches as Nyla walks away and glances at Jaskier. He looks a bit pale - his scent  _ burns  _ with fear, and he’s nearly trembling in his seat. Geralt frowns, concern rising in him. 

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s blue eyes snap to him - they’re wide, scared. It takes him a moment to reply, and even then his voice is shaky and stilted. 

“Erynd,” he says, clipped. “He-“ 

He stops and glances down, a bitter note creeping into his voice. 

“He took me to parties like this.” Jaskier gestures out at the ballroom, speaking in a numb, detached tone. “I would sit on his right hand, exactly like this. He would… well.  _ Entertain  _ himself _. _ ”

Nausea starts to rise in Geralt’s throat at the implications of those words. He swallows as Jaskier continues. 

“He never could keep his hands to himself. Was always touching, feeling. Rubbing,” he says, after a pause. He gives a bitter, humorless smile and a clipped laugh with the same tone. 

“And when he got really drunk, or when he had a bad day, he would take my wrist and pull me onto his lap. Sometimes he would make me squirm in front of all the nobility there, would call me things like-  _ his little lark _ ,” Jaskier says, and Geralt feels the fae’s dormant magic stir with anger, anger deeper and more vengeful than anything he’d ever seen or felt himself. 

“And other things, of course. If he wasn’t doing it for the nobility, he’d do it for himself. Just to see me squirm. Or sing - he called the noises I made  _ singing _ .”

Geralt is having a very hard time keeping his lunch, and his anger, down. Whatever he might’ve imagined he would do to Erynd if he had stayed, it’s nothing compared to what he wants to inflict on the man now. He stays quiet, though, and tries not to lash out. 

“You’re not there anymore,” he says instead, after a few moments. It’s not the best words for comfort - they really don’t mean anything, because whether he’s there or not doesn’t mean Erynd doesn’t haunt his mind still, but Geralt can’t think of anything else past his anger and nausea, and he was never good with words in the first place.

Jaskier nods. “I know. It’s just- far too similar. Erynd didn’t like to be bored. Had to be entertained somehow.”

Geralt wants to respond, but Nyla is walking closer and he settles for quietly seething as she sits in her seat between the two and the guests start arriving - all nobility, finely dressed and entirely oblivious of the captured fae and Witcher in their midst. Not that they would care, anyway - they’re just as self-centered and arrogant as Nyla. If it wasn’t the sorceress trying to subdue them, it would be the nobility. 

Several hours pass with them watching the festivities. Geralt can smell the fear on Jaskier only increase as the night goes on, spiking and almost making Geralt flinch with the intensity of the acrid scent when Nyla reaches out to the fae beside her, brushing his hair back from his face with a predatory smile that puts Geralt even more on edge, if that’s possible. 

“Songbird,” Nyla says suddenly, turning to Jaskier, whose blue eyes widen and fear increases. “Go.”

He nods, eyes flicking to meet Geralt’s, before he stands up and walks down to the main floor. The band hands him what appears to be a lute when he walks up, and he takes it seemingly without any apprehension. Geralt hopes he knows how to play, and doesn’t embarrass himself in front of an entire court - because he knows Nyla won’t take kindly to that either. He couldn’t care less about the nobility, it’s Nyla he’s worried about. 

Turns out, Jaskier does know how to play. His trapped magic stirs around him as his voice rises, fingers strumming the lute like he’s practiced it his whole life, and he doesn’t stay on the stage for long. Soon, he’s out mingling with the crowd, making dramatic gestures and drawing everyone’s attention to him, dress swaying around him like air. Geralt wonders if he’s subconsciously infusing his magic into his performance, he’s so entrancing. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Nyla watching the fae as attentively as Geralt is, with a small, predatory smirk on her face, and he would be worried, but he’s too focused on watching Jaskier himself to do anything. Not like he could, anyway. 

Geralt - and the entire ballroom - loses himself in Jaskier’s singing, until he’s stumbling back up to the table, having somehow had wine between songs, skin flushed red and clothes and hair disheveled. Nyla’s eyes skim down his body with the same predatory smirk, and Geralt follows her gaze, but he’d much rather slowly take Jaskier apart in his bed - and with consent - than whatever Nyla is planning. 

Suddenly, guilt flashes through him at the thought that he’s doing the same thing Nyla is, and objectifying Jaskier, and he looks away. The fae’s under enough stress as it is being desired by a manipulative sorceress, he doesn’t need Geralt to add onto it. He’s a Witcher, after all - no creature as beautiful as Jaskier would ever want him. 

“Good job, songbird,” Nyla purrs, reaching out to slip her arm around Jaskier’s waist and pull him close. Geralt shoves down a growl at the fear that suddenly rolls off the fae, sensing his entire body tense as soon as Nyla touches him. He can’t ruin Jaskier’s agreement, he tells himself. Not until Jaskier himself tells him to. It’s the only thing preventing him from attacking Nyla right then and there, the fact that Jaskier would be happier if he didn’t. 

The banquet comes to an end around midnight, and Nyla stands up, arm still around Jaskier’s waist as he stands beside her. She waves over one of the servants, leaning over to whisper in her ear. 

The servant girl nods and Nyla smiles darkly before stepping past her, taking Jaskier with him. Geralt growls low in his throat and the servant girl’s fear suddenly overrides Jaskier’s, drawing his attention to her. He frowns, pushing down the growl, watching her grow slightly more confident as he makes himself less threatening. 

“Mistress has told me to lead you back to your rooms,” she says timidly, in a voice which would’ve been barely audible to anything but Witcher hearing. Geralt glances up at Jaskier and Nyla, who are halfway across the ballroom, and Nyla has her arm still around Jaskier’s waist, the fae pulled almost uncomfortably close to her. He can smell her arousal from here - and can smell his fear. 

“Is Jaskier joining me?” he asks. The girl looks out at the two, and then back at Geralt, the look in her eyes confirming what he suspected. He sighs, suppressing the familiar anger. “Fine. Take me, then.”

The girl nods and turns, walking Geralt back up to his rooms in silence and running away as soon as he is locked in the room. Geralt lets out a breath, suddenly exhausted from keeping his guard up all night and worrying about Jaskier, and he quickly strips into his smallclothes before falling onto the bed and sinking quickly into sleep. 

He doesn’t notice Jaskier not join him that night, or feel the panicked stirrings of his trapped magic in the room, or smell the sharp, acrid scent of terror mixed with arousal. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feral jaskier, jaskier + panic attacks, jaskier + rape/noncon, and geralt along for the ride, being comforting and pining for jaskier :)

Geralt wakes, gets dressed, and is finally allowed downstairs, where the servant brings him to the dining hall and he finds Nyla and Jaskier already sitting there. 

Or- Nyla is sitting. Jaskier is kneeling by her feet, and Geralt is instantly fully alert and awake, anger rushing through him and shocking his systems alive. The fear, which has become the most familiar scent to Geralt recently and has become nearly a standard part of Jaskier’s scent, also helps with waking Geralt suddenly up. 

He takes a seat next to Nyla and is handed a plate of food - which, he really does try to eat, but Nyla’s poisonous, dark smile and the way she hand-feeds Jaskier, and he _goes along_ with it without an argument, doesn’t help with his appetite. Geralt would wonder what’s changed, but he’s pretty sure the way Nyla left last night with Jaskier tells him everything he needs to know about _what changed_ and what Nyla did to Jaskier. 

Nyla notices, of course she notices, and her tone hides warning beneath it. “Not eating your food?” she asks. Geralt glances up, eyes flicking down to where Nyla feeds Jaskier a strawberry, and he swallows. 

“No. Not hungry,” he replies shortly. 

Nyla’s smile widens, growing impossibly darker. “Eat,” she says, with no room for argument.

So Geralt eats, forces down the urge to throw it all up, and watches the servants take the plates away. Nyla stands up, Jaskier following her, and she waves Geralt on. He reluctantly follows, and they walk through several hallways before emerging into bright daylight and a stone path, leading them through a garden overflowing with life - both magical and real. The flowers are far too vibrant to be real, but the plants themselves are, and their growth is (mostly) real. 

Nyla smiles, her arm slipping possessively around Jaskier’s waist again. Geralt sees the fae tense, fear rolling off of him in acrid waves and burning Geralt’s nose. He thinks he’s become quite good at suppressing his instincts to fight - forget Kaer Morhen, if there was any training to teach him control over his instincts, this had to be the most effective. Seeing Jaskier so afraid, so weak, made a bloodlust arise in Geralt like he hadn’t felt since he’d first become a full Witcher, reflexes and senses honed to a dangerous point - which he has never wanted to use more than right now. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Nyla says, but her eyes aren’t on the flowers. Jaskier nods, staying unsettlingly silent, and she grins, sending a glance back at Geralt. 

“Yes,” he grits out when she raises an eyebrow expectantly. She gives a satisfied nod and turns back to face the front. 

They continue walking, spending most of the day in the garden where Jaskier’s fear permeates the air and Geralt nearly sees red with anger, and by noon Nyla forces them to have lunch with her before locking them back in their rooms and, presumably, leaving them alone for the day. 

Jaskier starts shaking almost as soon as she leaves, panicked blue eyes turning to Geralt, who freezes, unsure of what to do. His wings fold in tightly against his back and he wraps his arms around himself. “Geralt, she- she-“

He chokes off and Geralt steps forward, reaching slowly out. He has no idea what to do, he’s probably as terrified as Jaskier is, but he has to do something, and the way Jaskier leans into his touch as he circles his arms around him suggests he’s doing it right. 

“She touched my wings,” Jaskier whispers after a few moments, when both his voice and his body have stopped shaking so much. “She made me- made me feel pleasure from them, and-“ he pauses, swallows. Geralt surreptitiously moves his arms away from Jaskier’s wings, learning that they’re something of an intimate part of his body.

“She _taunted_ me with her magic. Kept me on edge for hours, told me how I was weak and she was strong and I was- was supposed to be a pet, was born for it. A pretty thing for people to admire and touch,” he continues. Geralt tenses up. 

Jaskier looks up, eyes widening, and pulls away when Geralt tenses up - he lets him, arms falling easily away when Jaskier steps back. He’d never cage the fae, because he knows birds are meant to fly, and anyway, he’s the most beautiful when he’s free. Nyla doesn’t know what she’s missing, making him miserable by caging him. Geralt would rather be able to watch Jaskier be free from afar than never have him, if this is what it did to him. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier breathes, blue eyes wide and an overwhelming blend of panic, anxiety, and fear rolling off of him in waves. “Sorry, I didn’t- didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Geralt frowns. “Jaskier, you could never make me uncomfortable.”

The fae relaxes slightly, though he still looks doubtful, and Geralt sighs. “You can tell me anything,” he says - because he can. Geralt would do so much for Jaskier, far more than he’d like to admit. Listening to what Nyla did to him was only a trivial part of making Jaskier feel better. 

Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, wings fluttering anxiously. Geralt resists the urge to step forward and touch, knowing that it will probably do more harm than good. 

“Do you know what wings and other features like them mean to fae?” he asks suddenly, and responds before Geralt can, a slightly hysterical light in his eyes. “They’re- they’re intimate. If I had my magic, I wouldn’t even make them visible to anyone but who I trusted. It’s not- they’re not supposed to be seen, or touched, unless I want them to. And this- she made me-“

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair again. Geralt stays still - he wouldn’t know what to do even if he was allowed, and confident enough, to touch. 

Jaskier looks up now, meeting Geralt’s eyes, and his blue eyes are wide and panicked. Distantly, Geralt thinks _fuck it_ and moves forward without thinking, wrapping his arms around Jaskier - without touching his wings, Geralt carefully makes sure of. The fae melts into him, burying his face in his shirt, and anyone else wouldn’t have felt the slight trembling of his body, or the whisper-breath litany of curses coming from his mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_

Geralt is silent. He doesn’t know what to say, anyway, and he’d most likely make it worse. It’s a miracle already that Jaskier is withstanding his touch for so long, and when he’s in such a fragile mindset. Geralt considers stepping away, but Jaskier seems to be relaxing where he is, the scent of anxiety and panic slowly bleeding from his scent as his breaths even out, and Geralt decides he’ll stay where he is. 

Jaskier stops shaking several minutes later, and Geralt drops his arms. The faint scent of disappointment reaches Geralt’s nose, before it disappears and Jaskier steps back, turning away and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Let’s just go to sleep. And-“ he starts pulling at the sheer dress Nyla had put him in, an overwhelming assault of emotions flooding into his scent, “get this _fucking_ dress off of me,” he says, almost _growls._ He throws the dress across the room when he finally pulls it off, and stares at it for several moments before sighing and dropping his head in his hands. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything, only walks to his side of the bed and pulls the covers aside, sliding underneath them. Jaskier doesn’t move. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly. 

There’s a small hitch of breath, and Geralt thinks Jaskier is crying, before he takes his hands away from his face and his voice comes out rough. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He swings his legs up on the bed and rolls to his stomach, pillowing his head on his hands. 

Geralt turns his head, meeting Jaskier’s blue eyes, and the fae gives a small, sad smile before spreading one wing, draping it over Geralt like a heavy, heated, feathered blanket. It’s familiar, and Geralt lets the corner of his lips quirk up for half a second before he closes his eyes, feeling Jaskier’s scent slowly flood with dandelion-happiness amidst the anxiety and panic before his breathing evens out, body relaxing into the mattress. Geralt lets sleep take him soon after, finding this small point of contentment in the mess that is their life right now. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier wakes up at dawn - he’s formed a habit of doing that now - almost two weeks after the banquet. Almost two weeks after Nyla had first brought him to her room and shown him just how cruel she could be, just how much she’d desired him. At this point, Jaskier couldn’t tell which nightmares were his and which were brought on by Nyla’s magic, which hummed around him constantly, like a pesky insect. He might have lost his magic temporarily, but he had not lost the other inhuman aspects of him - wings, for one. His inhuman grace, quicker reflexes, sharper senses… and the ability to sense magic. 

And Jaskier has quite come to look forward to destroying Nyla’s magic when he has the chance. 

He slides on the dress she picked for him today, shivering and shoving down the burst of panic as the magic slides into place, feeling as if it’s cutting his wings off in one cold, efficient slice. In any other circumstance, he would’ve felt powerful in the exquisite fabric, which was a shining sapphire blue with gold highlights that he knew brought out his eyes, contrasted nicely with his pale skin and dark hair, and made him look like the worst temptation - in the best way. 

Now, though, he feels like a meal being prepared for ravenous wolves. And not the sexy kind of meal, and not the sexy kind of wolf. 

He sighs before sliding into the chair and applying makeup, angling his face to his reflection in the mirror for perfect lines. Nyla had told him in bed last night that she wanted him to have makeup tomorrow, and though he was in a post-coital haze, he couldn’t forget the warning tone in her voice for the rest of the night and into the morning if he tried. It repeats in his head like a bad song, and he wonders, with no small sense of dread, why she’d want him in makeup after most of the time they have with her was spent without it. 

Fifteen minutes later, he finishes and looks over at Geralt, who’s still sleeping. The gold light of dawn shines over his face, highlighting his white hair and the dips and curves of his skin in pale gold. He looks beautiful like this, Jaskier thinks, and he desperately wants to touch. He wants to spend the morning in bed with Geralt, taking apart and being taken apart, instead of meeting a manipulative sorceress’s sadistic appointments. 

But, he doesn’t always get what he wants, so he stands up from his chair and leaves the room, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him. The servant locks it, and Jaskier turns, walking down the hallway and downstairs. 

Nyla meets him in the downstairs dining room, which is suspiciously devoid of any breakfast dishes, and her eyes scan down his body appreciatively, a smirk curling her lips. Jaskier puts on his neutral mask, smoothing out all expression save for when he glances away at her gaze, shifting uncomfortably. 

She returns her eyes to his and her smile grows. “I have a treat for you today,” she purrs, before turning around and walking away. He follows her, a strange sense of dread rising in him at the way she says _treat,_ giving him the feeling as if it’s anything but. 

Nyla opens two grand double doors to a large room, filled with at least a dozen nobility of various genders and dressed in such clothing that it makes Jaskier realize very suddenly what they want from him. 

He freezes behind Nyla, wants to run but he can’t because the doors slam and lock behind him, and the nobility and Nyla all are staring at him like he’s prey. One of the lords walks forward while Jaskier is frozen, breaths coming shorter, and he flinches when the lord’s hand tangles in Jaskier’s hair and pulls, tugging his head back and baring his throat. 

Jaskier can barely breathe. “Hmm, pretty thing isn’t he?” the lord asks, a smirk curling his lips as his finger traces down Jaskier’s neck, making him shiver involuntarily. “We’ll have fun with him.”

Suddenly the fog is broken and Jaskier growls softly, feeling his rage spark up like a bonfire, and moves faster than any of them can process. The lord is on the ground in an instant, one hand cupping his sensitive parts and the other pressed against his jaw, which Jaskier had uppercutted. He turns to the rest of them, feeling adrenaline course through him and the faint whisper of his magic brush against him - there, and responsive, but unreachable. 

Nyla glares and he feels her magic whip against his skin in warning, stinging but leaving no mark. He doesn’t back down - he will not let them have their way with him so easily. He was never one to submit easy, and to multiple people? To _nobility?_ He’d rather die than be stripped of that dignity. 

“Songbird,” Nyla warns, but Jaskier is already moving again, landing two more hits in two of the nobles before her magic crashes into him, rendering him frozen in place. He glares at her, letting a snarl rise in his throat as she keeps him held still. 

He can feel his rage and adrenaline coursing through him, and Nyla is lucky that she has him weak, otherwise he would have embraced his true fae nature for the first time in years and, possibly, have decorated the room in blue blood. Jaskier knows he can’t do it now, though he will bide his time. Nyla can’t run forever, especially when she takes the enchantments and the collar off, and when she does…

He hopes she knows to run, and he hopes she knows she won’t succeed. 

For now, his rage is only tempered by the fact that her magic hums around him, pinning him in place, and one of the noble lords - not from before - walks up to him, smirking when he realizes Jaskier’s predicament. “You’re caught, songbird,” he sneers. 

Jaskier smiles, though it’s more like a baring of teeth - he knows his teeth are just a little on the wrong side of too sharp, and the lord falters. “You’re lucky I am,” he replies, not bothering to hide the threat in his tone. 

The lord is quiet for all of a moment before he gets over his fear and sneers, anger at Jaskier’s defiance causing him to tangle his fingers in his hair and pull Jaskier’s head back, tugging until it’s painful and Jaskier lets out a sharp gasp. 

“I can think of better things to do with that mouth,” he says, shoving Jaskier down on his knees. 

Nyla smiles, her magic humming around Jaskier, and his rage simmers like a low flame. 

The nobles descend on him, and Jaskier thinks of all the ways he’ll make Nyla pay. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wing kink! wing kink! wing kink! (and pining, and feelings, because that's just geralt and jaskier for you)
> 
> me, making fae soup with actual fae traits + my bullshit
> 
> second to last chapter, then happy ending!

Geralt smells the anger before he smells Jaskier. 

He walks out of the bathroom just as Jaskier walks in, swinging the door open harshly and letting it slam behind him. Geralt frowns at the state he’s in - he smells strongly like sex, with his makeup smeared and hair disheveled, skin flushed red and a faint scent of blood on him. His dress is torn in several places, and he smells like at least a dozen other people along with the blood, sex, and anger. His own natural scent is buried beneath it all, barely noticeable.

The anger isn’t even anger - it’s _wrath,_ deeper than anything any human could feel. It’s the wrath of a fae - infinitely stronger and harsher and darker than a human, with a thousand more possibilities and a darkly creative imagination when it comes to vengeance. 

Jaskier leans against the door. “I’m going to kill her,” he says. He slides his back down the door. “I’m going to kill her, I’m going to _kill her._ ”

Geralt stands still. Jaskier tangles his fingers in his hair and instantly takes them out, shaking them and staring at them. The scent of sex grows stronger when he does. “Fuck, it’s in my fucking hair!” Jaskier nearly yells, and then he pulls at the dress, roughly tearing it over his head and throwing it across the room, wings appearing when he does. Geralt inhales sharply at the state he’s in beneath the dress, too worried to be surprised about the sudden nudity.

There’s cum and blood dripping down his thighs, he doesn’t have his smallclothes on, and there’s cum in at least three other places on him, spread generously over the pale skin. Jaskier glares down at himself for all of a second before his head thuds back against the door and he starts shaking, anger draining out of him. 

Geralt takes a hesitant step forward. He doesn’t know what to do, or how unstable Jaskier is. Fae are known for their moods, which can switch on a dime, and while Jaskier has never seemed like the type of violent, malicious fae Geralt was taught about, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the traits of them, or that he actually is one beneath the optimism and almost human kindness. 

“Jaskier,” he says when the fae presses his hands over his eyes, still shaking. “There’s a bath drawn,” he continues quietly, because he’s never been good at comforting with words, but he is good at acts of service. It was going to be his bath, but Jaskier needs it more now.

Jaskier groans and pulls his hands away from his eyes, which are tired when they look up at Geralt. His eyes flick past him, to the entrance to the bathroom where steam drifts from, and he sighs. “Fine. Okay.”

He walks past Geralt without looking at him, and the Witcher sighs. Even if they do get out of here, he has no idea what sort of toll it will pay on them - he’s exhausted, keeping his guard up, playing these mental and emotional games with Nyla, and he can only imagine what it is for Jaskier. They might not make it out in one piece at this rate. 

Geralt follows Jaskier into the bathroom, and casts Igni before Jaskier throws in a few salts and oils and gets in. He sighs, sinking down into the water, submerging himself before rising and brushing the wet hair out of his face, and Geralt stands there awkwardly. Jaskier always washes his hair when Geralt takes a bath, but Geralt isn’t sure if Jaskier wants the same done to him - especially by a Witcher. He isn’t sure he’d be good at it, anyway. 

Geralt turns around, taking all of three steps before Jaskier’s soft voice comes from behind him. “Where are you going?”

Geralt turns back around, tilting his head. “Leaving you to bathe in peace?”

The resulting look that fills Jaskier’s eyes is something Geralt doesn’t understand, and Jaskier reaches forward. “Stay. Please?”

Well, he can’t resist that. Geralt walks back to Jaskier and crouches down next to the tub. “What do you want me to do?”

Jaskier hesitates, eyes flicking down to the murky water, before his blue eyes meet Geralt’s again, clear and determined. “Wash my wings,” he says quickly. 

Geralt’s eyes widen. Jaskier has never asked him to do that - even on the road, even when Jaskier couldn’t change out of that turquoise doublet because of his wings, Geralt was never asked to help him; he barely even _saw_ him wash his wings. And Jaskier has taken plenty of baths here, but never once has Geralt been asked to stay, let alone touch his wings. 

_They’re- they’re intimate. If I had my magic, I wouldn’t even make them visible to anyone but who I trusted. It’s not- they’re not supposed to be seen, or touched, unless I want them to._

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure?”

Jaskier shifts so he’s facing the side of the tub with his back to Geralt, legs pulled up against his chest. He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and his head on his arms, and spreads all what seems like twenty feet of white feathers, wingtip to wingtip. He lifts them so they stretch across the room, over the tub, nearly touching the wall on either side. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Geralt takes a breath, and tries very hard not to focus on the way the light shines over the feathers, and Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin as it melds with the wings. “How…?”

Jaskier sits up and turns to look over his shoulder. “Just set the feathers back in place, like this,” he says, fingers moving delicately over the feathers to right them, before digging his fingers in, “and get all the dirt underneath them, too.”

His voice is oddly strained, but Geralt doesn’t smell anything weird on his scent, so he pays no mind to it and Jaskier leans forward again when he reaches out hesitantly. 

He’s scared, most of all - of all the monsters he faces nearly daily, weekly, the thought of being allowed to touch something as fragile and intimate as Jaskier’s wings is the one that scares him. He doesn’t want to break them, he doesn’t want to lose Jaskier’s trust. 

He lightly skims his fingers over the feathers, watching the way the afternoon light shifts and makes them almost glow, flicking his fingers gently to right some feathers as he goes. Jaskier shivers, body nearly melting into the water, and he lets out a soft sigh. 

Geralt shifts. “Are you sure I’m-“

“Yeah, you’re doing it right,” Jaskier says quickly. His wings flutter towards Geralt, who pulls his hand away quickly. “Keep going. They’re not made of glass, you know.”

Geralt reaches out again, slightly bolder at Jaskier’s reassurance, and straightens several feathers before he works his fingers beneath them, feeling the dirt there. He cups his other hand in the water and brings it up, pouring the water over the feathers and rubbing at the dirt caught there, slowly loosening it and watching it fall down into the water. 

Jaskier smells like dandelions, like happiness and contentment, so Geralt keeps going. He works out a rhythm, going row by row of feathers, cupping water and rubbing the dirt just rough enough to loosen it, but not enough to hurt. 

He gets to the inside of the left wing and digs his fingers in there, near where the wing meets the skin, and Jaskier, who had only been giving shivers and slight hitches of breath before, gives a full-body shudder. Geralt pauses, and Jaskier’s voice sounds strained and breathy when he talks next. 

“No, no, keep going,” he says. “You’re almost done-“ Geralt starts rubbing his fingers again and Jaskier gasps. 

He pauses a second time, listening to Jaskier’s breaths come heavier, and the spicy cinnamon scent of arousal reaches his nose several moments later. Geralt freezes, hand still buried in his feathers, feeling heat rise to his face and his own body respond. 

“Jaskier,” he says, voice slightly rough with arousal, “do you want me to stop?”

The fae shakes his head, wings fluttering and dislodging Geralt’s fingers. “Don’t stop. Unless- unless you’re uncomfortable.” The spice of arousal quickly changes to the sweet-sour of worry, and Jaskier looks over his shoulder, blue eyes wide and filled with worry. “You can stop if you’re uncomfortable, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to do. His fingers, though not buried as deep, are still lodged in Jaskier’s soft feathers, and if he doesn’t do this, then how will Jaskier? Plus… there’s something in him that takes pleasure at causing Jaskier pleasure, and yet another part wants to see Jaskier squirm while Geralt touches his wings. 

Geralt gently arches his hand and pushes his fingers back where they were, hearing Jaskier gasp softly and bury his face back in his arms. It’s then that Geralt notices Jaskier’s body trembling finely, and now he jerks his hand back as if it’s been burned. “Jaskier,” he says urgently, while trying to hide his slight panic at wondering if he did something wrong, “what’s wrong? What did I do?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not you. It’s not you,” he says quietly, not lifting his head from his arms. “It’s just-” He paused. “You’re so gentle, and you don’t have any ulterior motives, and it’s all what _I_ want. Of my own free will.”

Geralt relaxes slightly at the reassurance that he didn’t cause Jaskier to shake, though he simmers with anger at what others did to Jaskier to make him have such bad memories of touching his wings. In Geralt’s opinion, they’re beautiful, something to be treasured. Not mistreated, and not treated as if they’re his own - because they’re not. 

Jaskier lets out a quiet breath. “Keep going. Please,” he whispers, and his voice is so pleading that Geralt can’t resist it even if he tried. He continues cleaning the feathers, working his way to the inside of the left wing, and moves to the outside of the right. 

Half an hour later, Jaskier’s body is nearly limp in the tub, and Geralt thinks he’s dangerously close to falling asleep. He keeps working his fingers through the feathers, as gentle as he can be while still cleaning them, and finishes the right wing fifteen minutes later. 

He lightly smacks the back of Jaskier’s neck and the fae hums, definitely sounding nearly asleep. Geralt lets his lips curl up in half a smile. “Jaskier.”

“Mmmm,” he gets in response, and Geralt grabs his shoulder, lightly pulling him back before letting go. 

“You’re going to fall asleep.”

“‘nd?”

He gives a long-suffering sigh. “You really want to fall asleep in a tub filled with water that’s dirty with cum?” he asks bluntly. 

Jaskier lifts his head and looks over his shoulder, blinking at him sleepily. “Damn you and your logic,” he mumbles. Geralt laughs softly and waits for Jaskier to slowly - _ever so slowly_ \- lift himself out of the tub. Geralt turns around, listening to the rustle of cloth on skin as Jaskier finishes cleaning and dressing, and follows the fae when he walks past him into the bedroom in his smallclothes, the water draining behind them. 

Now, the dim lamplight cast on Jaskier’s clean white feathers makes them _shine,_ and Geralt can’t stop looking at them. He’s so distracted, he doesn’t know Jaskier has turned around and is holding a bottle of oil until the fae waves his hand in front of his face. 

Geralt’s eyes snap to him, and he gives a low growl at the knowing smirk on Jaskier’s face. 

Jaskier’s smirk widens to a grin, blue eyes lighting with mischief. “You’ll deny it to your last breath, but you were staring,” he says triumphantly. “How is it that I found Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier purrs, stepping forward, and for some reason he decided to put a dress on over his smallclothes, and it hugs his curves quite unfairly, Geralt thinks, “the White Wolf,” Jaskier loops his arms around his neck and Geralt thinks the contact isn’t all that bad, “ _staring_ like he’s a horny virgin teenager who’s never had sex before?”

_Fuck._ All Geralt can smell is the dandelions of happiness, spicy cinnamon arousal, all he can smell is _Jaskier_ and it’s intoxicating. He’d happily drown in that scent, let himself become addicted to it like a drug. It may as well be; Jaskier is the worst kind of temptation in the best way, and Geralt would take him up on his blatant offer, but he’s been taken advantage of by too many people already and Geralt is not going to add himself to that list. Besides, Geralt doesn’t think he can handle only a one-night fuck, and it’s inevitable that Jaskier will realize what kind of mutated monster he’s decided to bed and will run away from him like so many others. 

It doesn’t matter that Jaskier is his own kind of creature, because he’s beautiful and graceful and everything Geralt isn’t. 

Geralt steps back and turns around, walking to his side of the bed. “I wasn’t staring.”

The scent of disappointment is slightly sour on Jaskier, but it’s there for all of a second before his scent returns to dandelions and sweet lemongrass. “Whatever you say, Geralt,” he says teasingly. He opens the bottle of oil he was holding and spreads one wing, spilling oil onto his hand and spreading it through the feathers. Geralt rolls to his side and watches him, watches his long, pale fingers work methodically through the feathers, and can smell the faint scent of lavender from the oil. It’s not too strong for his senses, but it’s still noticeable. Geralt finds he likes it. 

Jaskier finishes one wing. Geralt suddenly has an urge to help him; he wants to take the oil and spread it through Jaskier’s feathers for him, feel the softness and make Jaskier go soft and pliable in front of him, like in the bath. 

But he can’t. His chance to clean Jaskier’s wings before was just a fluke; the fae surely wouldn’t want him to help with the oil too. And Geralt won’t ask, either; he knows when he’s wanted and when he’s not, and inviting himself to touch Jaskier in such a way again would certainly be part of the latter. 

Geralt rolls to his other side, studying the pattern on the blankets instead, and fifteen minutes later he feels Jaskier slide in next to him, lavender-scented wing draping over him. Geralt wants to push him away, wants to get rid of the temptation that is Jaskier, but that’s the whole problem - the fae is irresistible and Geralt finds his self-control rapidly dwindling around him. 

And… Geralt isn’t sure he wants to get rid of Jaskier, because despite his frustration, he finds the slight lavender scent, mixed with his natural sweet lemongrass, lulling him to sleep faster than he thought. 

Geralt decides he’ll deal with that in the morning, and lets the darkness - scented with lavender and lemongrass - pull him under. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hamilton voice* ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for...
> 
> nyla gets wrecked!
> 
> :D

Geralt doesn’t deal with it in the morning - or, for the entire week and a half they have left. He doesn’t get rid of Jaskier - rather, he only grows more attached, and he knows he shouldn’t, because when Jaskier inevitably leaves him he’ll hurt more for it, but he can’t help himself. No one has treated him like the fae has, treated him like a  _ person  _ before a Witcher, and Geralt is helpless to resist.

Nyla doesn’t do much for the last week and a half - only shows off her claim on Jaskier, but does nothing so terrible as what she brought Jaskier to a week and a half ago, which they are not talking about. Jaskier said that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and the first time Geralt did he nearly went into a panic attack, so they don’t. Geralt and Jaskier don’t talk about when he holds the fae through the nightmares, either. It’s a long list of things they don’t talk about.

Their time is up, now, and Jaskier wakes up with an excited energy, the same that he had before they made the deal with Nyla, except this time it’s a certainty. Geralt doesn’t want to think about what will happen when Jaskier leaves him once he gets his magic back. He hadn’t come to terms with it before, he still hasn’t now. 

Nyla meets them in the front room, where they first made the deal, and for once Jaskier is allowed to wear whatever he wants. He picks a dress, because it falls over his wings loosely in a way that it doesn’t hurt, and Geralt tries not to look at the way the black fabric shimmers in the light, like the outfit he got for the fae before they found Nyla. He tries not to look at the fae at all, tries not to put himself in more pain than he’s already in.

Nyla smiles, but it’s bitter and her scent is tinged with anger. Geralt wonders if she’s going to follow through on her deal, and he’s fully prepared to try to force her to do it if she doesn’t. They didn’t go through all of this for nothing.

Nyla looks at him, senses his suspicion, and her lips curl up in a sarcastic smile. “Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m a woman of my word, and as pretty as the fae is, and as much as I want to keep him-” she reaches out and traces her fingers along Jaskier’s jaw, while he falls completely still, “-I don’t go back on promises.”

She meets Jaskier’s eyes now, taking her fingers off of him, and suddenly her face grows serious. “But I need a promise from you both. Once I take this collar and the enchantments off, I will be allowed to walk free. You will not hurt me.”

Geralt growls. After all she did to them, she expects them to let her walk free? At best, she’ll be allowed to live, in Geralt’s opinion. There is no way he isn’t going to at least hurt her for what she did to Jaskier - he doesn’t care what she did to him. It’s Jaskier that matters.

The fae looks over at him and shakes his head, and the growl dies in Geralt’s throat. He resents not being able to do anything, but this is Jaskier’s deal, and they’re so close that he can’t ruin his chances at getting the other half of himself back now.

“I will agree,” Jaskier says, and Geralt frowns slightly. Strange wording, he thinks, but he doesn’t put much more thought into it. He’s too focused on the  _ i agree  _ that he himself grits out, and the surge of anger that rushes through him at her satisfied smile.

“Good,” she says brightly. Her smile turns to a smirk, and Geralt gets the feeling that she knows something they don’t. Which, isn’t a particularly  _ new  _ feeling, but it’s never worked out in their favor before, and there’s no reason to assume it will now.

She lifts her necklace from her neck, revealing a small silver key on the chain, and unclips it. The key fits perfectly in the dimeritium collar, and Geralt frowns.

“Why do you have that key made already?” he asks. Jaskier freezes, and she doesn’t look at him, unlocking the collar in a complicated series of twists. 

Her tone is neutral when she speaks. “You couldn’t find a sorceress powerful enough to undo this collar and enchantments until you found me,” she says, and now she turns that smirk on Geralt, whose stomach is slowly sinking with dread for what she’s going to say next. “How do you think Erynd put the collar on?”

She lifts the collar off of Jaskier, taking the enchantments with it in a simple flick of magic, like unraveling thread, and the fae slowly turns around. Geralt ignores the feeling of his magic stirring to life, and surges forward, intent on hurting Nyla for everything she did, rage surging through him.  _ She  _ put the collar on,  _ she  _ knew who Jaskier was,  _ she  _ hurt them in so many ways for the past month. Geralt is going to make her pay.

He’s halfway to her when her magic slams into him and he goes flying back towards the wall.

“ _ Don’t touch him,”  _ Jaskier hisses, and the whole room crackles with energy suddenly. Her magic vanishes, and Nyla yells as she is thrown back by Jaskier’s magic, now alive and thrumming around them, charging the air with tension like the air before a thunderstorm. It rages around the three of them, but somehow doesn’t touch Geralt, who stands and watches Jaskier turn towards Nyla, his magic pinning her to the wall.

Geralt can feel them both - Jaskier’s magic and Nyla’s. Nyla’s magic struggles like a trapped bug, the hum distant beneath the storm that is Jaskier, and the pure rage radiating off of the fae as he holds Nyla against the wall. His wings extend out from his dress now, and Geralt can almost see the Chaos lashing around him, raw and powerful.

“You said,” Nyla gasps, “you wouldn’t hurt me!”

Jaskier smiles, dark and dripping with threat, and his tone is lethally calm. “I said I  _ will _ agree. Not that I did. Only Geralt agreed not to hurt you, and he’s not bound by fae magic.”

Nyla’s eyes widen and anger floods her scent alongside the fear. “I held my end of the deal up!” she protests indignantly.

Jaskier is unfazed. “And I held mine. A bit too well, I think.” He raises his hand, and  _ twists,  _ and Nyla screams, arching against the magic holding her in place. Geralt doesn’t dare move, for fear of breaking the apparent bubble of protection he has around himself. He does, however, feel a cruel sense of satisfaction at seeing Jaskier get his own revenge on the woman who tormented him.

Nyla glares, panting from whatever invisible pain Jaskier inflicted on her. “You’re punishing me for using the freedoms my end of the deal gave me?”

Jaskier’s smile fades, the anger in his scent growing sharper. “Yes,” he snaps. “Because how many others have you had  _ those freedoms  _ on? How many others have gotten hurt because of you and your  _ freedoms? _ ”

He twists, and she screams, gasping out words through the pain. “You’re… a  _ hypocrite…  _ for saying I’m bad… and then… doing  _ this!” _

Jaskier smiles again, just as dark and dangerous as before, and flicks his other hand, summoning a familiar dagger into his fingers. Geralt realizes with a shock that it’s the dagger  _ he  _ gave Jaskier, before they found Nyla, before she took their personal belongings, and he feels inappropriate heat flood his body at that thought.

“What you did to me is nothing close to what I’m doing to you,” Jaskier says, as dangerously calm as he’s been this entire time. “I could bring you to the fae court,” he muses, spinning the dagger in his fingers. “They have much more of an imagination than I do, and not  _ nearly _ as much mercy.” He grins, and for the first time Geralt can see his true fae nature beneath the optimism and humanity - that of vengeance, and trickery, and destruction. He’s torn between letting Jaskier kill Nyla and killing Jaskier himself, because as human as the fae is sometimes, he’s still  _ fae,  _ and if this is what Jaskier has hidden beneath his humanity, what he does when he gets angry… it scares Geralt to think of what he could do out in the world.

Except, the magic thrumming around him that should’ve been raging, like every other bit of Jaskier’s magic, is instead almost  _ caressing  _ his skin, weaving around him softly, and it smells like sweet lemongrass. None of the anger Geralt can smell on the rest of Jaskier’s magic, like before a thunderstorm, is on the magic touching him… and even if Jaskier was truly evil, Geralt wouldn’t have been able to kill him anyway. He’s a bit ashamed of himself for even thinking of it - as if Jaskier would betray him like that. Jaskier is fae, but he’s like none of the fae Geralt has ever known - he complains about dress fabrics, and sings bawdy songs in noble courts, and lets Geralt wash his wings, and curls up next to him at night. He’s more human than he is fae, at least in personality, and Geralt would protect him with his life before he’d ever think of hurting him.

“No, no, don’t,” Nyla pleads, squirming, all her self-righteousness gone in a flash at the simple threat of the fae court. Jaskier’s grin fades, and his eyes darken.

“I won’t. Like I said, they don’t have nearly as much mercy as I do,” he replies, and Geralt watches Nyla relax for all of a second before Jaskier raises his dagger. “You’re lucky you’re getting a quick death. I’d have given you to the fae court without a second thought if I was in any less of a generous mood.”

Nyla’s eyes widen again and Geralt almost wants to laugh. He knows it’s dark, but after seeing what Nyla did to Jaskier? After talking Jaskier through panic attacks, holding him through nightmares, knowing the scent of Jaskier’s fear better than his happiness?

Geralt couldn’t care less what happened to Nyla.

“Songbird, please-” 

Nyla falls silent as Jaskier throws the dagger, blade flipping through the air to land point-first, lodged in her neck and the wall. The low hum of her magic stops abruptly, leaving only the thunderous storm of Jaskier’s, which gradually calms to its own steady thrum around Geralt.

“I’m not your  _ songbird _ ,” Jaskier tells Nyla’s dead body, hissing the last word, and then goes quiet. He lets out a breath, all his anger leaving him and replaced by the sour-sweet scent of anxiety, the acrid tang of fear, and underlying it all, the dandelion scent of satisfaction.

He turns to Geralt, blue eyes wide, and Geralt steps towards him. He should be afraid - Jaskier did just kill a powerful sorceress, after all - but all he feels is concern as Jaskier lets Geralt wrap his arms around him, and his voice is distant and numb when he talks into Geralt’s shirt.

“She’s gone,” he whispers. “She can’t hurt me- hurt  _ us.” _

Geralt hums. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier stays still for a moment, but nods and steps back. Geralt watches him, unsure of why Jaskier hasn’t hidden his wings yet - surely he didn’t want Geralt to see them, and he was definitely planning on leaving as soon as he got his stuff back, but Geralt wasn’t thinking about that. He was savoring the time he had with Jaskier right now, and dealing with when he left later.

Jaskier’s wings flutter and he flicks his fingers, summoning their possessions that Nyla had taken, and both him and Geralt hear the quiet footsteps from around the corner.

Geralt looks up and sees one of the servant girls watching, hidden halfway behind the wall, the tang of fear and confusion rolling off of her in waves. He looks at Jaskier - he is certainly better with people - but the fae steps back and shakes his head. His eyes are tired, in a sense that goes much deeper than physical fatigue, and Geralt can’t blame him for not feeling up to dealing with people.

Geralt turns back to the girl and makes himself as non-threatening as possible, making his voice as soft as he can. “You’re free,” he says, and at the stronger scent of confusion from her, he opens his mouth to reply again.

He’s cut off by the loud snap of fingers from Jaskier and the wave of magic resonating through the mansion, and his eyes dart to the fae.

Jaskier sighs. “They were under a spell,” he says shortly, tiredly, before returning to checking his things.

Geralt looks back at the girl, but she’s gone, leaving behind the faint floral scent found in all of Nyla’s mansion, and he frowns. He turns back to Jaskier, who has both their bags slung over his shoulders and is wearing the emerald outfit Geralt had bought him so long ago, wings magically extending through the back of it. His frown gets deeper.

“You’re not leaving?” he asks, and he really does try to hide the note of hope in his voice, but Geralt has been dreading the time when Jaskier leaves so much that it’s impossible for him to. He can’t hide the note of hope in his voice, and he can’t hide the resulting spark of it lighting in him, despite his best efforts to tamp it down these several months.

Jaskier shakes his head, not even trying to analyze why Geralt had thought he would leave. If he hadn’t been tortured both mentally and emotionally for a month by a manipulative, sadistic sorceress, and if he hadn’t just killed her and been left with the adrenaline drain from that and finally realized he could let his guard down, he’d have known exactly why Geralt thought he would leave, and been able to deal with it. But right now, all he wants is to take his things, build a fire in the woods, and curl up with Geralt next to it. 

And maybe… he could have what he’d wanted for so long, now that there is nothing in the way. It’s obvious Geralt didn’t want him to leave, so… it is possible.

Jaskier can’t find out without trying, though, so he looks up at Geralt, meeting golden eyes that are so carefully blank of emotion save for the small spark of hope he knows is lighting in them, and steps forward. He feels Geralt’s hands hover around his waist in response, so close to holding yet not, and he leans just slightly up, pressing his lips softly to Geralt’s.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispers against his rough, scarred skin, and feels Geralt’s hands land on his waist. Jaskier has never known anyone to be as gentle as Geralt is, holding him like he’s fragile - and, past the tiredness, he knows it’s because Geralt thinks he’ll hurt him.

He wants to prove him wrong, wants to show Geralt that he’s possibly the kindest, most human inhuman creature he’s ever known, and he couldn’t ever hurt Jaskier. Especially not as he presses his lips back to Jaskier’s, soft and sweet and nothing like his scarred, calloused skin and title as a Witcher imply.

Geralt pulls back from the kiss, though he doesn’t move away from Jaskier, only buries his face in his neck, and hums softly. “Love you,” he whispers, so quiet into the skin that if Jaskier was human, he wouldn’t have heard it.

Jaskier smiles and pulls back, sliding Geralt’s bag off of his shoulder and offering it out to him. “Well, then let’s go.”

Geralt lets the corner of his lips quirk up, and he takes the bag, following Jaskier out of the mansion and leaving behind the memories and pain there. They’re not starting a new life, but simply continuing what they had and didn’t say, and Erynd and Nyla are going to haunt them both, but Jaskier and Geralt both find they don’t care, as long as they have the other.


End file.
